“That’s very kind of you, Mr. —”
“Smith, Lieutenant—Jerry Smith.”
“Since when?” asked Lieutenant Valcour gently, as he started to follow Mr. Smith into an adjoining room.
“Why, what do you mean, Lieutenant?”
The man stopped, and his soft dark eyes stared earnestly at Lieutenant Valcour from a ruddy, slightly dissipated-looking young face.
Lieutenant Valcour removed his hat and placed it on a settee. “Nothing much, Mr. Smith,” he said. “Certainly nothing beyond the fact that I saw you one morning last month in the lineup down at headquarters. In connection with some nightclub business, I believe. The charge fell through, I also believe, because the woman involved preferred the loss of her emerald necklace to the loss of prestige she certainly would have suffered during the publicity of a trial had she pressed the case. That’s all I mean, Mr. Smith.”
“I don’t suppose, sir, I could convince you of my innocence?”
“No, I don’t suppose you could.”
“It was my misfortune that the case never did come to trial, Lieutenant. I could have cleared myself then.”
“Nonsense. You could have brought counter charges—sued for damage for false arrest.”
Mr. Smith looked inexpressibly shocked. “We of the South, sir, do not bring charges against a lady.”
“Well, the ethical distinction between swiping a woman’s necklace and bringing charges against her is a shade too delicate for my Northern