"They were there all the time," she exclaimed; "and you knew it."
"Guessed it," he corrected, "by figuring out that they couldn't well
be elsewhere--unless on the untenable hypothesis that our friend,
Mr. Greene here, was a thief."
"Which only goes to prove," said Kirby soberly, "that evidence may
be a mighty deceptive accuser."
"Which only goes to prove," amended Average Jones, "that there's no
fire, even the bluest, without traceable smoke."'
CHAPTER VII
PIN-PRICKS
"The thing is a fake," declared Bertram. He slumped heavily into a
chair, and scowled at Average Jones' well-littered desk, whereon he
had just tossed a sheet of paper. His usually impeccable hair was
tousled. His trousers evinced a distinct tendency to bag at the
knees, and his coat was undeniably wrinkled. That the elegant and
flawless dilettante of the Cosmic Club should have come forth, at
eleven o'clock of a morning, in such a state of comparative
disreputability, argued an upheaval of mind little short of
phenomenal.
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