It was well along toward the middle of the following morning before Russell had learned definitely what had happened at Number 112 West street. Stick’s account had been exciting but vague. He had, however, assured Russell that he had personally made an examination of the premises and found everything all right, after learning which Russell had been able to compose himself to slumber with the determination to await philosophically the full explanation of the surprising event. Not that he had sought sleep very early, for Stick, in spite of small knowledge, had had much to say, and his theories had prolonged conversation well toward midnight. In fact, Stick was still theorizing when Russell dropped asleep.

When he did learn the particulars it was from the still agitated lips of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer. The two met in the police station, whither they had been summoned, and on a bench in the outer room waited to be conducted into the presence of the Chief. Shorn of unnecessary details and repetitions, the facts were these. Mr. Pulsifer had gone to the store after supper last evening and had remained there until nearly ten o’clock. He had then put out the light, locked the door behind him and reached the corner of Linden street, where the post office is situated. There he annoyingly discovered that he had failed to bring away with him two letters which he had early in the evening prepared for the mail. As it was necessary that they should be delivered in the city early in the morning, he had thereupon retraced his steps, entered the store and, without troubling to light up, groped his way to his desk and found the letters. He had again started toward the front of the store when sounds at the rear had attracted his suspicion. The sounds resembled the straining of a window sash, as though some one was forcing it upward with a jimmy.

Mr. Pulsifer had promptly made his way silently to the window at the left of the rear door. Sounds outside told him that burglars were at work. What his emotions were at the moment Mr. Pulsifer didn’t state. It is to his credit, though, that he quickly seized the nearest available weapon, which happened to be a broom reposing in a corner, and prepared to repel the marauders. He had barely got into position when the window sash went up and he dimly saw some one swing across the sill. What happened then was still doubtful so far as Mr. Pulsifer’s memory was concerned. He recalled raising a loud shout of “Police!” and of swinging the broom lustily. He recalled, less distinctly, the crash that resulted when the broom, evidently missing the intruder, struck the window glass. Then a surprising number of stars shot into his vision and when he next took cognizance of events he was being supported by a policeman, the store was dazzlingly illuminated and a second policeman stood by with a firm grasp on the prisoner.

Mr. Pulsifer had a dreadful headache and a swelling under his right eye, but after being given a drink of water was able to recount what had happened. Fortunately, one of the officers had been crossing the mouth of the alley on State street when the sound of breaking glass had reached him. He had run toward the scene in time to see a figure speeding away in the opposite direction, had shouted to it to stop and was raising his revolver to fire when a second figure had collided with him at the gate of the rear premises. The officer had been obliged to use the butt of his revolver to make his capture, for the prisoner had strongly objected to being detained. Mr. Pulsifer, having been assisted from the floor, observed that the prisoner, who was hardly more than a boy, although a very robust boy, looked extremely pale and that he was holding a handkerchief to the side of his head. Mr. Pulsifer was uncharitable enough to hope that the prisoner’s head was aching was much as his was!

After that they had proceeded in a compact body to the station house, accompanied by an ever-growing body of curious spectators. Inside, the prisoner had, after several hesitations, given his name as William Crocker and his residence as 43 Munroe avenue. Mr. Pulsifer had duly made a charge against the prisoner and then been conveyed in a taxicab to his home.

After some minutes of waiting Russell and his companion were summoned into the Chief’s office. The latter did most of the talking. He had, he informed them, got a confession from the boy. What had appeared last evening as an attempt at burglary turned out to be no more than a very silly school-boy prank. Of course, the Chief wasn’t excusing young Crocker, but, on the other hand, Mr. Pulsifer of course knew what boys were! The offender was a boy of excellent character, the son of one of Alton’s prominent merchants and respected citizens and of a hitherto stainless record. Young Crocker had earnestly disclaimed having intended any theft or damage, and the Chief believed him. Now, then, did Mr. Pulsifer think that any good would be done by prosecuting the charge already made?

Mr. Pulsifer felt of his cheek, blinked a few times and shook his head. The Chief smiled his approbation. Of course, he continued, if Mr. Pulsifer felt that he had a claim for personal injury doubtless that matter could be arranged easily and without publicity. The Chief bore heavily on the last word. Mr. Pulsifer started to feel of his cheek, thought better of it and again shook his head. The Chief looked relieved and arose from his arm-chair, intimating that the consultation was at an end and implying that Mr. Pulsifer had acted in exactly the way he—the Chief—had expected a gentleman of his wisdom and kindliness to act. It was Russell, who so far had said nothing, who, in a way of speaking, spoiled the finale.

“I’d like to ask,” said Russell, “what Crocker intended to do when he got inside the store.”

The Chief turned a displeased look on him. “Nothing at all, I understand, nothing at all. They—that is, he had no plan. It was merely a foolish prank, conceived hurriedly and carried out without—er—without reflection.”

“There were two of them in it, I think?” asked Russell.

“Two of them? Possibly, possibly.” The Chief frowned darkly. “Only one was apprehended, Mr. Emerson. As he refuses to state whether he had an accomp—a companion, that is, we are left in doubt. And since Mr. Pulsifer has decided not to prosecute the matter is of no importance. You are not, I think,” added the speaker suggestively, “the lessee of the premises?”

“No, but I sub-rent half the store, and—”

“Nothing has been stolen or damaged?”

“Not so far as I know,” acknowledged Russell.

“Of course not! Very well then!” The Chief was once more affable and was herding them toward the door. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Pulsifer. The matter will be allowed to drop, and so, of course, I trust that neither you nor Mr. Emerson will discuss it with others. I have the boy’s promise, and his father’s, that nothing of the kind will happen again. Good morning!”

Saying good-by to the florist, Russell hurried back to school and an eleven o’clock recitation. At twelve he mounted to Number 27 and found Stick anxiously awaiting his account of the interview. Russell told what had happened, and Stick snorted. “Ha, that’s old man Crocker,” he said. “I suppose he’s got enough influence to get Billy off if he committed murder! J. Warren’s a spineless shrimp, if you ask me. Didn’t intend any mischief! Oh, no, not a bit! If J. Warren hadn’t been there those two would have put the place on the blink, I’ll bet! Maybe they wouldn’t have swiped anything: I don’t believe they meant to: but they’d have ruined a lot of our stock.”

“Do you think the other fellow was Throgmorton, Stick?”

“Sure! Why not? Billy was mad because he couldn’t get my share in the business and he made up his mind to get square. Throgmorton’s a chunk of cheese, if you ask me, and Billy probably made him think it was just a sort of lark. Well, Crocker got a crack on the head and a couple of hours in jail, and he ought to be satisfied!” Stick’s expression became more mollified. “I guess we might as well be satisfied, too, Rus. The laugh’s on our side, all right. Billy’s in bad with faculty, you see, and out of football— Gee, that reminds me!”

Stick stepped to the table and rummaged amongst the litter.

“Out of football!” exclaimed Russell. “Gee, that’s tough, Stick!”

“Tough?” Stick laughed unfeelingly. “I don’t see it. Where the dickens is that— Oh, here it is! That crazy guy Johnson left this a few minutes ago.”

Russell took the folded sheet of paper and read the hastily scrawled words amazedly.