series of passes and touches. It couldn't have taken half a minute. But it seemed to satisfy the officer of the law.
He was plainly disappointed, and Pinky, I could see, was enjoying the discomfiture of his oppressor. And I considered that it was about time for me to step into the game.
"Are you an officer?" I demanded.
The man standing close beside Pinky McClone explained that he was an officer, or, rather an operative for Locke's office, and that a big part of the Locke Agency work had to do with the Bankers' Protective Association. Pinky was leisurely folding up his newspaper, prior to moving on.
"All right," I sang out to that operative, "grab your man. He's stalling."
It was like a horse sneezing in a feed-bag.
"He's what?" cried that startled singed cat.
"I say he's stalling. Here's the wallet he stole. He tried to push it under my skirt when he saw you coming!"
The hand of that operative of Locke's went out like a lightning flash. It wasn't until he had a firm grip on the slack of the other man's sleeve that he even turned to look at the wallet itself.
The other man, strangely enough, did not strug-
