The young woman fixed her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called to
him in the voice of the wronged heroine in straits:
"Say! You look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail, won't
you? I've done nothing to get pinched for. It's all a mistake. See
how they're treating me! You won't be sorry, if you'll help me out of
this. Think of your sister or your girl being dragged along the
streets this way! I say, come along now, like a good fellow."
It may be that Lorison, in spite of the unconvincing bathos of this
appeal, showed a sympathetic face, for one of the officers left the
woman's side, and went over to him.
"It's all right, Sir," he said, in a husky, confidential tone; "she's
the right party. We took her after the first act at the Green Light
Theatre, on a wire from the chief of police of Chicago. It's only a
square or two to the station. Her rig's pretty bad, but she refused
to change clothes--or, rather," added the officer, with a smile, "to
put on some. I thought I'd explain matters to you so you wouldn't
think she was being imposed upon."
"What is the charge?" asked Lorison.
"Grand larceny. Diamonds. Her husband is a jeweller in Chicago. She
cleaned his show case of the sparklers, and skipped with a comic-opera
troupe.
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