The boy was plainly in a funk. His eyes rolled alarmingly as they sought the broad face of Doyle. The policeman patted him encouragingly on the shoulder and said to the Inspector, “He’s a little scared, sir—but he’s a good boy. I’ve known him since he was a shaver. Grew up on my beat.—Answer the Inspector, Jessie....” “Well, I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered the boy, shuffling his feet. “The only drinks we’re allowed to sell during the intermissions is orangeade. We got a contract with the ——”—he mentioned the name of a well-known manufacturer of the concoction—“people and they give us a big discount if we sell their stuff and nobody else’s. So—” “I see,” said the Inspector. “Are drinks sold only during intermissions?” “Yes, sir,” answered the boy, more naturally. “As soon as the curtain goes down the doors to the alleys on both sides are opened, and there we are—my partner and me, with our stands set up, and the cups filled ready to serve.” “Oh, so there are two of you, eh?” “No, sir, three all together. I forgot to tell you—one feller is downstairs in the main lounge, too.” “Ummmm.” The Inspector fixed him with a large and kindly eye. “Now, son, if the Roman Theatre sells nothing but orangeade, do you think you could explain how this ginger-ale bottle got here?” His hand dove down and reappeared brandishing the dark-green bottle discovered by Hagstrom. The boy paled and began to bite his lips. His eyes roved from side to side as if they sought a quick avenue of escape. He inserted a large and dirty finger between his neck and collar and coughed. “Why—why ...” He had some difficulty in speaking. Inspector Queen put down the bottle and rested his wiry length against the arm of a seat. He folded his arms sternly. “What’s your name?” he demanded. The boy’s color changed from blue-white to a pasty yellow. He furtively eyed Hagstrom, who had with a flourish taken a notebook and pencil from his pocket and was waiting forbiddingly. The boy moistened his lips. “Lynch—Jess Lynch,” he said hoarsely. “And where is your station between acts, Lynch?” said the Inspector balefully. “I’m—I’m right here, in the left-side alley, sir,” stuttered the boy. “Ah!” said the Inspector, knitting his brows ferociously. “And were you selling drinks in the left alley to-night, Lynch?” “Why, why—yes, sir.” “Then you know something about this ginger-ale bottle?” The boy peered about, saw the stout small form of Louis Panzer on the stage, about to make an announcement, and leaning forward, whispered, “Yes, sir—I do know about that bottle. I—I didn’t want to tell before because Mr. Panzer’s a strict guy when it comes to breaking rules, and he’d fire me in a minute if he knew what I did. You won’t tell, sir?” The Inspector started, then smiled. “Shoot, son. You’ve got something on your conscience—might as well get it off.” He relaxed and at a flick of a finger Hagstrom unconcernedly walked away.