“You’ve had all your stewing for nothing.”

“I’m mighty glad of it.  His customer must be late.”

“All the better for us.  This experience will teach you a good lesson in our profession—­namely, never to get excited.”

“I’ll try to profit by it,” said Harry, quietly.

Just then a boy came running up and the clerk said: 

“Show these gentlemen up to 76—­Mr. Savoy’s room.”

Just as they were about to follow the boy, a tall, thin man, without whiskers, came along and seeing the Bradys, gave a slight start.

The Bradys got a good look at him before he turned his back to them and Harry clutched his companion’s arm and whispered: 

“By jove, that’s Andrew Gibson, the Custom House inspector, in disguise.”

“Yes,” assented Old King Brady, nodding, “I recognized him.  He knew us, too, I could tell at a glance.  That man hates us.  I wonder what he is doing here.  Can he be after La Croix, too?”

Harry was startled at the very suggestion.

“He knows La Croix is a professional smuggler,” he remarked, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if he got on to the man living here.  He may be trying to nab him as we are doing.”

“He won’t cheat us out of our prey this way, Harry.”

Just then they heard the inspector say to the clerk: 

“Send up my card to Mr. Savoy.  He expects me.  I was to meet him at twelve o’clock on some business, but was detained.”

The Bradys darted startled glances at each other.

Gibson’s remark exposed his hand.

He was the supposed jeweler with whom La Croix had been negotiating to sell the contraband diamonds.

The Bradys had arrived just in time to prevent this man from cheating them out of their legitimate prey.

Had they been delayed a few minutes longer Gibson would have had La Croix under arrest and the smuggled diamonds in his possession.

After all their arduous work, he would have stepped in at the last moment and gained the credit for the arrest.

It made the Bradys shiver to think of it.

Harry said to the hall-boy: 

“Go ahead, as fast as you can!”

They hastened upstairs while the hotel clerk was writing Gibson’s name on a card, and the boy knocked at the door of No. 76.

“Who ees zat?” demanded La Croix’s voice from within.

“Boy, sir.”

“Ah!  An’ vat you vant?”

“Gentlemen to see you, sir.”

“Yes.  I expect him.  Wait, I open ze door.”

“Go!” whispered Harry to the boy.

The little fellow ran downstairs.

La Croix unlocked the door and stuck out his head.

“Come in, Meestair Geebson—­” he began.

And the Bradys interrupted him by rushing against the door; it hit La Croix on the shoulder, sending him reeling back into the room, and he gave a yell as the detectives dashed in.