ND that,” said Boston Betty reflectively, curling one of Alibi's clever silken ears over her forefinger, “makes six. Or is it seven? Did you keep count, mummy?”
“I did. It was seven,” rejoined Mrs. Mullen, and sneezed.
Mrs. Mullen had been born with a cold in her head and undoubtedly would die with one. The sea air had done it no good. She was not one to roam abroad; fortune came to her too gently at home. But her erratic daughter Elizabeth, the most brilliant girl crook in the East, had lured her away from the respectable lodging house she had kept from time immemorial, and persuaded her to taste the joys of Atlantic City. Mrs. Mullen adored Betty, so she had come, but she thought wistfully of her own dark kitchen, where she was wont to consume gallons of tea and count her savings, honest and otherwise.
No; Mrs. Mullen was not keen about Atlantic City, nor the board walk with its endless procession of rolling chairs, its well-dressed people, its smart little shops, its great glinting expanse of water with now and again an aëroplane dashing by overhead like a wonderful golden bird.
Betty asked her if she didn't like to look at the ocean, and she simply and truthfully replied that she didn't; for the reason that it looked so damp.
There was, however, one other bright spot besides being with her clever daughter and Alibi, the pluperfect crook dog, a fox terrier worth many times his weight in anything you could mention. The other bright spot in Mrs. Mullen's unexciting holiday was being away from Danny Lonsdell. Lonsdell was nothing but a poor wretch of a plain-clothes man who had tried his best to “get” Betty when she did New York the honor to pay it a professional visit. He never had succeeded and he had never quite happened to “connect” the mother and daughter together. Indeed he had the highest respect for the sneezing landlady, a respect deepened by sheer wonder and awe before so perfect a specimen of feeble, persistent stupidity.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Mrs. Mullen, who in her day had put over more and prettier deals than Dan could ever guess at, looked upon the detective with scorn, but she liked him three hours away a good deal better than three blocks. Any one who hung round like he did might happen on something—not by skill but by the law of chance. This was only reasonable, and Mrs. Mullen, in her dual callings of landlady and crook, was nothing if not strictly and carefully reasonable.
Now Betty was of fierier fiber and liked to plunge. She was always thinking up wild schemes that made her mother's few lank hairs stand on end, but she got away with them. It was the sort of breakneck success that goes with genius, and with the immortal confidence that goes with it. Boston Betty aimed high and she scarcely ever failed. She had been in jail only once, and it was her boast to give the dull-witted officers of the law a good running start on every job—and then beat them! When she arrived in Manhattan and was ready to do business, she invariably tipped some one off—usually Lonsdell; that was only sporting, since he was so keen on catching her—and then blithely proceeded with her operations, certain to leave on the next train for Massachusetts.
She, unlike her mother, delighted in Atlantic City. Her clever dark eyes sparkled with enjoyment at the mere sight of so much money being exhibited in clothes and merchandise and so on. She wanted that money! Oh, well, she might get some of it!
“It might be worked,” she said, cuddling the dog against her very smart dark coat. Betty was good looking and dressed excellently, and Alibi would have been a decoration to a gown of rags. “Yes, mother, I really think it might be worked.”
Mrs. Mullen's mind had a beautiful way of eliminating possible new trains of thoughts. She took up the conversation precisely where it had paused and said:
“You mean them seven packages that we seen dropped outer the roller chairs?”
“I do. Two weren't picked up at all—at least I didn't see they were. The men pushing the chairs picked up the other five; one took something out before he returned it. It ought to be a great graft if it could be systematized a bit.”
Mrs. Mullen sighed heavily and blew her nose. At this point Betty's own purse slipped from her fur-robed lap on to the board walk. A young man seized it and presented it, hat in hand, smiling hopefully—a beautiful young man, beautifully clothed.
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth sweetly, and as he still loitered gazing ardently, she drew a dollar bill from the recovered purse and held it out.
The youth recoiled flaming. “You didn't think I meant” he gasped huskily.
