“Gee!  He’s beat it in my bubble!  And it was a hired one!”

The words seemed to relieve the tension in the air.  One by one the company became masters of themselves once more.  Miss Trimble, that masterly woman, was the first to recover.  She raised herself from the floor—­for with a confused idea that she would be safer there she had flung herself down—­and, having dusted her skirt with a few decisive dabs of her strong left hand, addressed herself once more to business.

“I let ’m bluff me with a fake bomb!” she commented bitterly.  She brooded on this for a moment.  “Say, shut th’t door ’gain, some one, and t’run this mutt out.  I can’t think with th’t yapping going on.”

Mrs. Pett, pale and scared, gathered Aida into her arms.  At the same time Ann removed herself from Jimmy’s.  She did not look at him.  She was feeling oddly shy.  Shyness had never been a failing of hers, but she would have given much now to have been elsewhere.

Miss Trimble again took charge of the situation.  The sound of the automobile had died away.  Gentleman Jack had passed out of their lives.  This fact embittered Miss Trimble.  She spoke with asperity.

“Well, he’s gone!” she said acidly.  “Now we can get down t’ cases again.  Say!” She addressed Mrs. Pett, who started nervously.  The experience of passing through the shadow of the valley of death and of finding herself in one piece instead of several thousand had robbed her of all her wonted masterfulness.  “Say, list’n t’ me.  There’s been a double game on here t’night.  That guy that’s jus’ gone was th’ first part of th’ entertainment.  Now we c’n start th’ sec’nd part.  You see these ducks?” She indicated with a wave of the revolver Mr. Crocker and his bearded comrade.  “They’ve been trying t’ kidnap y’r son!”

Mrs. Pett uttered a piercing cry.

“Oggie!”

“Oh, can it!” muttered that youth, uncomfortably.  He foresaw awkward moments ahead, and he wished to concentrate his faculties entirely on the part he was to play in them.  He looked sideways at Chicago Ed. In a few minutes, he supposed, Ed. would be attempting to minimise his own crimes, by pretending that he, Ogden, had invited him to come and kidnap him.  Stout denial must be his weapon.

“I had m’ suspicions,” resumed Miss Trimble, “that someth’ng was goin’ t’ be pulled off to-night, ’nd I was waiting outside f’r it to break loose.  This guy here,” she indicated the bearded plotter, who blinked deprecatingly through his spectacles, “h’s been waiting on the c’rner of th’ street for the last hour with ’n automobile.  I’ve b’n watching him right along.  I was onto h’s game!  Well, just now out came the kid with this plug-ugly here.”  She turned to Mr. Crocker.  “Say you!  Take off th’t mask.  Let’s have a l’k at you!”

Mr. Crocker reluctantly drew the cambric from his face.

“Goosh!” exclaimed Miss Trimble in strong distaste.  “Say, ’ve you got some kind of a plague, or wh’t is it?  Y’look like a coloured comic supplement!” She confronted the shrinking Mr. Crocker and ran a bony finger over his cheek.  “Make-up!” she said, eyeing the stains disgustedly.  “Grease paint!  Goosh!”