Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. He must be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. She pulled the trigger.
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