“At 10:15,” replied the other promptly.

“And the ring was lost, or missed, at 10:20.  You were not on the floor when it happened, at all.”

“She ought to know her own business,” snapped the detective.

“And I ought to know mine,” replied Miss Allen.  “I gave Miss Berg fifteen minutes, and she was not there when that tray was out of the case.”

“You should be very careful in a matter of this kind,” cautioned the superintendent.

Dorothy left her place and stood straight before the big flat-top desk.

“My name is Dorothy Dale,” she began clearly, “and I tell you, honestly, I know nothing about this ring.  I never looked at a ring at the counter, and never touched an article except those in the tray with the small pins.  I feel you must believe me, but if you are not satisfied you may call up my father, Major Dale, of The Cedars, North Birchland.  He will give you any security you may demand.”

The speech was just like Dorothy, unexpected, simple, clear in its avowals, and sharp in its purpose.  The superintendent looked pleased and Miss Allen smiled.  Miss Berg was frightened—­she had made a mistake, but the woman detective seemed to know, and she had followed her leading.  The detective turned away to hide her disgust.

“Well,” said the superintendent, “I am satisfied to drop the matter.  I believe you, but should I be mistaken in the matter I am willing to let it drop at any rate because of your youth.  You may go, young ladies.”  Then he continued to the employes:  “Be careful not to leave tempting goods under the hands of a Christmas throng.”

But the detective waited.  She had missed a case—­perhaps she would lose by it, if not money, some fame as a detective.

“Miss Dearing,” said the superintendent, addressing her, “be very careful to cause no false arrests.  It appears in this case you have missed the actual culprit, and followed a line pointed out by the clerks.”

“But several of the clerks—­”

“Mere hearsay,” interrupted the gentleman.  “Now, miss,” to Dorothy, “I am sorry you have had your morning spoiled, and I hope you can make up the lost time.”

His manner said plainly that he, too, had lost valuable time, so, with a hasty word of thanks, Dorothy and Tavia left the office.

“Well, you are the coolest kid,” began Tavia with a loving little tug at Dorothy’s arm.  “You go to pieces on small things, but seem to glory in a good big scrape.  I would simply have hauled off and landed one on that high-up lady’s pug nose.”

Dorothy laughed at Tavia’s attempt to cover up the experience with her joke.  She knew Tavia did not really want to use common slang, but understood her way of teasing and jesting under pretense that Dorothy would be shocked and give her a “good scolding.”  But this time Dorothy disappointed her—­she was too well pleased to get out of “the scrape,” and had no intention of checking Tavia’s suddenly-freed spirits.