“Has this—­this fish been living on me all this time—­have I been supporting this—­this buzzard in luxury all these years while he fooled about with an explosive that won’t explode!  He pointed an accusing finger at the inventor.  Look into it tomorrow, will you?  Yes, you can look into it to-morrow after six o’clock!  Until then you’ll be working—­for the first time in your life—­working in my office, where you ought to have been all along.”  He surveyed the crowded room belligerently.  “Now perhaps you will all go back to bed and let people get a little sleep.  Go home!” he said to the detective.

Miss Trimble stood her ground.  She watched Mrs. Pett pass away with Ogden, and Willie Partridge head a stampede of geniuses, but she declined to move.

“Y’ gotta cut th’ rough stuff, ’ster Pett,” she said calmly.  “I need my sleep, j’st ’s much ’s everyb’dy else, but I gotta stay here.  There’s a lady c’ming right up in a taxi fr’m th’ Astorbilt to identify this gook.  She’s after’m f’r something.”

“What!  Skinner?”

“’s what he calls h’mself.”

“What’s he done?”

“I d’no.  Th’ lady’ll tell us that.”

There was a violent ringing at the front door bell.

“I guess that’s her,” said Miss Trimble.  “Who’s going to let ’r in?  I can’t go.”

“I will,” said Ann.

Mr. Pett regarded Mr. Crocker with affectionate encouragement.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, Skinner,” he said, “but I’ll stand by you.  You’re the best fan I ever met, and if I can keep you out of the penitentiary, I will.”

“It isn’t the penitentiary!” said Mr. Crocker unhappily.

A tall, handsome, and determined-looking woman came into the room.  She stood in the doorway, looking about her.  Then her eyes rested on Mr. Crocker.  For a moment she gazed incredulously at his discoloured face.  She drew a little nearer, peering.

“D’yo ’dentify ’m, ma’am?” said Miss Trimble.

“Bingley!”

“Is ‘t th’ guy y’ wanted?”

“It’s my husband!” said Mrs. Crocker.

“Y’ can’t arrest ’m f’r that!” said Miss Trimble disgustedly.

She thrust her revolver back into the hinterland of her costume.

“Guess I’ll be beatin’ it,” she said with a sombre frown.  She was plainly in no sunny mood. “‘f all th’ hunk jobs I was ever on, this is th’ hunkest.  I’m told off ’t watch a gang of crooks, and after I’ve lost a night’s sleep doing it, it turns out ’t’s a nice, jolly fam’ly party!” She jerked her thumb towards Jimmy.  “Say, this guy says he’s that guy’s son.  I s’pose it’s all right?”

“That is my step-son, James Crocker.”

Ann uttered a little cry, but it was lost in Miss Trimble’s stupendous snort.  The detective turned to the window.

“I guess I’ll beat ’t,” she observed caustically, “before it turns out that I’m y’r l’il daughter Genevieve.”