“How did you—­catch her?” asked Constance a moment later as she found an opportunity to talk to Drummond alone.

“Oh, she was trying to substitute a paste replica for the alleged Arkansas Queen.  The clerk noticed the replica in time, saw a little spot of carbon on it—­and she was shadowed and arrested just as she was leaving the store.  Yes, they found the other paste jewel on her.  She was caught with the goods.”

“Replica?” repeated Constance, thinking of the picture that had appeared in the papers the night before.  “How could she get a replica of it?”

“How do I know?” shrugged Drummond coldly.

Constance looked him squarely in the eyes.

“What about Annie Grayson?” she asked pointblank.

“I have taken care of that,” he replied harshly.  “She is already under arrest, and from what I have heard we may get something on her now.  We have a record against the Carr girl.  We can use it against her friend.  We’re just about taking her to the flat to identify the Grayson woman.  Would you like to come along?” he added in a spirit of bravado.  “I think you are a material witness in the Stacy case, anyhow.”

Constance felt bitterly her defeat.  Still she went with them.  There was always a chance that something might turn up.

As they entered the door of the kitchenette loud voices told them that some one was disputing inside.

Drummond strode in.

The sight of a huge pile of stuff that two strange men had drawn out of drawers and closets and stacked on the table riveted Constance’s eyes.  Only dimly she could hear that Annie Grayson was violently threatening Drummond, who stood coolly surveying the scene.

The stuff on the table was, in fact, quite enough to dazzle the eyes.  There were articles of every sort and description there—­ silks, laces, jewelry and trinkets, little antiques, even rare books—­everything small and portable, some of the richest and most exquisite, others of the cheapest and most tawdry.  It was a truly remarkable collection, which the raiding detectives had brought to light.

As Constance took in the scene—­the raiding detectives holding the stormy Annie Grayson at bay, Drummond, cool, supercilious, Kitty almost on the edge of collapse—­she wondered how Jim Grayson had managed to slip through the meshes of the net.

She had read of such things.  Annie Grayson was to all appearances a “fence” for stolen goods.  This was, perhaps, a school for shoplifters.  In addition to her other accomplishments, the queen of the shoplifters was a “Fagin,” educating others to the tricks of her trade, taking advantage of their lack of facility in disposing of the stolen goods.

Just then the woman caught sight of Constance standing in the doorway.

In an instant she had broken loose and ran toward her.

“What are you,” she hissed, “one of these department store Moll Dicks, too?”