"We'll see," was Fudge's cryptic and unsatisfactory reply. "So long. And not a word of this to a living soul, Perry!"
"All right. But, say, Fudge"—Perry dropped his voice—"do you really think he's a—a criminal?"
"What else can he be? Folks don't wear false mustaches for nothing, do they?"
"N-no, but he might be doing it for—for a sort of joke," returned the other lamely.
Fudge sniffed. "Joke! I'll bet the joke will be on him before I'm—before we're done with him! You leave it to me. Night!"
Fudge strode off in the twilight. There was something very stealthy and even somber in his departure. Perry, watching a bit admiringly, saw the careful manner in which the amateur detective discounted surprise by keeping close to the fence and peering cautiously at each tree as he approached it. At last Fudge melted mysteriously into the distant shadows down the street, and Perry, somewhat thrilled with the afternoon's adventure, hurried upstairs and glanced toward the window in the brick building. There was a light behind the lowered shade, but, although he kept watch for nearly a half-hour, nothing came into view.
He wondered what was going on behind that
window, and imagined all sorts of deliciously excit-
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