Lonesome Town. James French Dorrance

I can’t help feeling my responsibility. Tell me, what do you make of it?”

      His chin cupped in one hand, Pape tried to look that shade of study denominated as “brown.” Next he puffed viciously at the plump middle section that was left of his cigar—women, he had noticed, always harkened with more respect to a man who puffed viciously at a cigar.

      “Strange—passing strange,” he muttered. From a pocket of his figured white waistcoat he drew his watch and looked enquiringly into its face. “You say it was about nine o’clock when you discovered this theft? It was after ten when you sent the butler after—after me. Just to keep the tally straight, madam, may I ask what you were doing in the interim?”

      Mrs. Sturgis’ brows—black as her daughter’s, but unplucked—lifted slightly, as if she were surprised by the question. However, after a momentary pause she answered, “At first I was uncertain just what to do. Finally I decided to summon Miss Lauderdale from the opera house. She, as the only loser, was the person most concerned. She returned just now and insisted that the police be called in. She was even more upset than I when we discovered that our telephone was out of commission. She sent Jasper at once to——”

      Pape managed an interruptive glower of disapproval that would have done credit to the most efficient “bull” of the Central Office.

      “You’ve wasted valuable time,” he declared. “In robberies, it is advisable to get the authorities on the scene of the crime at the earliest possible moment.”

      “But in this instance the circumstances were so peculiar and I——”

      “I know. I know, madam. Circumstances always are more or less peculiar.” Pape had deemed a touch of official discourtesy not out of place. “What I want to know next is—that is to say, the person I’d like next to interview is this niece of yours who has been deprived of her snuffbox.”