Part 17 (1/2)

”You have no right to copy it,” Amy insisted, with increasing anger.

”The Black Imp is solely my work.”

Before either Hanley Cron or Penny guessed the girl's intention, she darted across the room and s.n.a.t.c.hed the little figure from the pedestal.

”What are you doing?” the sculptor demanded harshly.

”I'm going to take the Black Imp with me. You've no right to it!”

”Drop that!”

Furiously, Cron caught the girl by the wrist, giving it a cruel wrench.

Amy would not relinquish the ma.s.s of wet clay and Penny hastened to a.s.sist her. In the midst of the struggle, the door opened and a policeman looked in.

”What's going on here?”

Hanley Cron's hand fell from Amy's arm. The girls expected him to make a direct charge against them but he seemed confused by the appearance of the policeman.

”We're not having any trouble, officer,” he muttered. ”Just a little friendly argument about some of my work.”

”Friendly, eh?” the policeman questioned. He gazed inquiringly at Penny and Amy.

”It was really nothing,” the latter said hurriedly. ”We merely disagreed about a statue.”

The girls edged toward the door, Amy still clutching the Black Imp in her hands. They both confidently expected that Cron would bring up the matter of the stolen painting, but for some reason which they could not fathom, he stood mute.

The policeman, however, blocked the exit.

”Just a minute,” he said. ”What's this bag doing here?” He picked up the beaded purse which had been dropped on the table.

Penny explained where Amy had found it and told of her own attempt to capture the jewel thief.

”The man didn't come into my studio,” Cron interposed. ”These girls are so excited they don't know what they saw.”

”The thief came up the fire escape,” Penny insisted. ”I admit I may have been mistaken as to the window he entered.”

”You were,” Cron said shortly.

”I guess it doesn't matter greatly now,” Penny returned. ”By this time the thief is probably blocks away.”

It was Mrs. Dillon who had called the policeman. She had noticed him at the corner and had screamed for help. He had mounted the stairs so swiftly that she had been unable to keep pace with him. Now she hurried up, breathless from exertion. The corridor was rapidly filling with excited occupants of the building who had learned of the theft.

”Oh, thank goodness you've recovered my bag!” Mrs. Dillon cried joyfully, as she entered the studio room.

”Your pearls are gone,” the policeman told her, handing over the purse.

”The thief dropped the bag in the hallway after he had rifled it.”

Mrs. Dillon sank weakly down in the nearest chair. Her face was white and Penny could not help feeling sorry for her.

”Can you describe the thief?” the officer questioned.