for her--nobody could." He hesitated a moment as though seeking for
words of explanation and extenuation that were not in his regular
vocabulary. "I got kids of my own, commissioner," he said suddenly, and
stopped dead short for a moment. "I'm no Italian, but I got kids of my
own!" he repeated, as though the fact constituted a defense.
"Well, well--what happened then?" The deputy commissioner's frosty voice
seemed to have frozen so hard it had a crack in it. And now then the
Semitic face of Weil twisted into a grin that was more than
shamefaced--it was downright sheepish.
"Why, then," he said, "when I comes back out of the Bertillon room the
second time she goes back down on her knees again and she says to me--of
course she ain't expected to know what my religion is--maybe that
explains it, commissioner--she says to me that all her life--every
morning and every night--she's going to pray to the Blessed Virgin for
me. That's what she says anyway. So I just lets it go at that."
He halted as though he were through.
"Then do I understand that, without an order from any superior
authority, you gave this here woman certain property belonging to the
Police Department?" Old Donohue's voice was gruffer than common, even.
He whetted his talon forefinger on the desk top.
"Yes, sir," owned up the Jew. "There's nobody there but just us two. And
I don't know how Captain Meagher comes to find the picture is gone and
that it was me took it--but it's true, commissioner. She goes away
kissing it and holding it to the breast of her clothes--that Rogues'
Gallery picture! Yes, sir; I gives it to her."
The third deputy commissioner's gold-banded right arm was shoved out,
with all the lean fingers upon the hand at the far end of it widely
extended. He spoke, and something in his throat--a hard lump
perhaps--husked his brogue and made his r's roll out like dice.
"Lieutenant Weil," he said, "I congratulate you! You're guilty!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Escape of Mr. Trimm, by Irvin S. Cobb