“Well, it is a bad business,” said the justice, “and gets worse the further it goes.  The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews, the Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs, in fact everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper’s had been robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and suchlike small valuables that are easily carried off.  It’s perfectly plain that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper’s when all the neighbors were in her house and all their niggers hanging around her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed.  Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on account of the neighbors, and particularly miserable on account of her foreigners, of course; so miserable on their account that she hasn’t any room to worry about her own little losses.”

“It’s the same old raider,” said Wilson.  “I suppose there isn’t any doubt about that.”

“Constable Blake doesn’t think so.”

“No, you’re wrong there,” said Blake.  “The other times it was a man; there was plenty of signs of that, as we know, in the profession, thought we never got hands on him; but this time it’s a woman.”

Wilson thought of the mysterious girl straight off.  She was always in his mind now.  But she failed him again.  Blake continued: 

“She’s a stoop-shouldered old woman with a covered basket on her arm, in a black veil, dressed in mourning.  I saw her going aboard the ferryboat yesterday.  Lives in Illinois, I reckon; but I don’t care where she lives, I’m going to get her—­she can make herself sure of that.”

“What makes you think she’s the thief?”

“Well, there ain’t any other, for one thing; and for another, some nigger draymen that happened to be driving along saw her coming out of or going into houses, and told me so—­and it just happens that they was robbed, every time.”

It was granted that this was plenty good enough circumstantial evidence.  A pensive silence followed, which lasted some moments, then Wilson said: 

“There’s one good thing, anyway.  She can’t either pawn or sell Count Luigi’s costly Indian dagger.”

“My!” said Tom.  “Is that gone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that was a haul!  But why can’t she pawn it or sell it?”

“Because when the twins went home from the Sons of Liberty meeting last night, news of the raid was sifting in from everywhere, and Aunt Patsy was in distress to know if they had lost anything.  They found that the dagger was gone, and they notified the police and pawnbrokers everywhere.  It was a great haul, yes, but the old woman won’t get anything out of it, because she’ll get caught.”

“Did they offer a reward?” asked Buckstone.

“Yes, five hundred dollars for the knife, and five hundred more for the thief.”

“What a leather-headed idea!” exclaimed the constable.  “The thief das’n’t go near them, nor send anybody.  Whoever goes is going to get himself nabbed, for their ain’t any pawnbroker that’s going to lose the chance to—­”