“Skinner!” cried Mrs. Pett.

Miss Trimble scanned her victim more closely.

“So ‘t is, if y’ do a bit ’f excavating.”  She turned on the bearded one. “’nd I guess all this shrubbery is fake, ’f you come down to it!” She wrenched at the unhappy man’s beard.  It came off in her hands, leaving a square chin behind it.  “If this ain’t a wig, y’ll have a headache t’morrow,” observed Miss Trimble, weaving her fingers into his luxuriant head-covering and pulling.  “Wish y’ luck!  Ah! ’twas a wig.  Gimme those spect’cles.”  She surveyed the results of her handiwork grimly.  “Say, Clarence,” she remarked, “y’re a wise guy.  Y’ look handsomer with ’em on.  Does any one know this duck?”

“It is Mitchell,” said Mrs. Pett.  “My husband’s physical instructor.”

Miss Trimble turned, and, walking to Jimmy, tapped him meaningly on the chest with her revolver.

“Say, this is gett’n interesting!  This is where y’ ’xplain, y’ng man, how ’twas you happened to be down in this room when th’t crook who’s just gone was monkeyin’ with the safe.  L’ks t’ me as if you were in with these two.”

A feeling of being on the verge of one of those crises which dot the smooth path of our lives came to Jimmy.  To conceal his identity from Ann any longer seemed impossible.  He was about to speak, when Ann broke in.

“Aunt Nesta,” she said, “I can’t let this go on any longer.  Jerry Mitchell isn’t to blame.  I told him to kidnap Ogden!”

There was an awkward silence.  Mrs. Pett laughed nervously.

“I think you had better go to bed, my dear child.  You have had a severe shock.  You are not yourself.”

“But it’s true!  I did tell him, didn’t I, Jerry?”

“Say!” Miss Trimble silenced Jerry with a gesture.  “You beat ’t back t’ y’r little bed, honey, like y’r aunt says.  Y’ say y’ told this guy t’ steal th’ kid.  Well, what about this here Skinner?  Y’ didn’t tell him, did y’?”

“I—­I—­” Ann began confusedly.  She was utterly unable to account for Skinner, and it made her task of explaining difficult.

Jimmy came to the rescue.  He did not like to think how Ann would receive the news, but for her own sake he must speak now.  It would have required a harder-hearted man than himself to resist the mute pleading of his father’s grease-painted face.  Mr. Crocker was a game sport:  he would not have said a word without the sign from Jimmy, even to save himself from a night in prison, but he hoped that Jimmy would speak.

“It’s perfectly simple,” said Jimmy, with an attempt at airiness which broke down miserably under Miss Trimble’s eye.  “Perfectly simple.  I really am Jimmy Crocker, you know.”  He avoided Ann’s gaze.  “I can’t think what you are making all this fuss about.”

“Th’n why did y’ sit in at a plot to kidnap this boy?”

“That, of course—­ha, ha!—­might seem at first sight to require a little explanation.”