“Right, Gavegan—­as a detective always should be.  And Larry Brainard was then, and is now, my friend.”

Miss Sherwood again spoke up sharply.  “Mr. Gavegan—­if that is your name—­you will please take those foolish things off Mr. Brainard’s wrists.”

Gavegan had been cheated out of creating a sensation.  That discomfiture perhaps made him even more dogged than he was by nature.

“Sorry, Miss, but he’s charged with having committed a crime and is a fugitive from justice, and I can’t.”

“I’ll be his security.  Take them off.”

“Sorry to refuse you again, Miss.  But he’s a dangerous man—­got away once before.  My orders is to take no risks that’ll give him another chance for a get-away.”

Miss Sherwood turned to Larry.  “I’ll go into town with you, and so will Mr. Hunt.  I’ll see that you get bail and a good lawyer.”

“Thank you, Miss Sherwood,” Larry said.  “Gavegan, I guess we’re ready to start.”

“Not just yet, Brainard.  Sorry, Miss Sherwood, but we’ve got a search warrant for your place.  We just want to have a look at the room Brainard used.  No telling what kind of crooked stuff he’s been up to.  And to make the search warrant O.K.  I had it issued in this county and brought along a county officer to serve it.  Show it to the lady, Smith.”

“I have no desire to see it, Mr. Gavegan.  I have more interest in watching you while you go through my things.”  And giving Gavegan a look which made an unaccustomed flush run up that officer’s thick neck and redden his square face, she led the way into Larry’s study.  “This is the room where Mr. Brainard works,” she said.  “Through that door is his bedroom.  Everything here except his clothing is my property.  I shall hold you rigidly responsible for any disorder you may create or any damage you may do.  Now you may go ahead.”

“Let’s have all your keys, Brainard,” Gavegan choked out.

Larry handed them over.  With Miss Sherwood, Hunt, and Larry looking silently on, the two men began their examination.  They began with the papers on Larry’s desk and in its drawers; and in all his life Gavegan had not been so considerate in a search as he now was with Miss Sherwood’s blue eyes coldly upon him.  They unlocked cabinets, scrutinized their contents, shook out books, examined the backs of pictures, took up rugs; then passed into Larry’s bedroom.  Miss Sherwood made no move to follow the officers into that more intimate apartment, and the other two watchers remained with her.

A minute passed.  Then Gavegan reentered, a puzzled, half-triumphant look on his red face, holding out a square of paint-covered canvas.

“Found this thing in Brainard’s chiffonier.  What the he—­I mean what’s it doing out here?”

There was not an instant’s doubt as to what the thing was.  Larry started, and Hunt started, and Miss Sherwood started.  But it was Miss Sherwood who first spoke.