"Oh, I guess I haven't known you, Tom Swift, ever since you
were big enough to toddle, not to be sure about what you're up
to. But I certainly didn't like the looks of that man. However,
let's forget about him. He seems to have gone down the street,
and, after all, perhaps I was mistaken. Just wait until I show
you a few more styles before you decide. The young lady may like
one of these," and the jeweler went to another showcase and took
out some more trays of brooches.

"What makes you think she's a young lady, Mr. Track?" asked the
lad.

"Oh, it's easy guessing, Tom. We jewelers are good readers of
character. I can size up a young fellow coming in here to buy an
engagement or a wedding ring, as soon as he enters the door. I
suppose you'll soon be in the market for one of those, Tom, if
all the reports I hear about you are true--you and a certain Mary
Nestor."

"I--er--I think I don't care for any of these pins," spoke Tom,
quickly, with a blush. "I like the first lot best. I think I'll
take the one I had in my hand when that man alarmed you. Ha!
That's odd! What did I do with it?"

Tom looked about on the showcase, and glanced down on the
floor. He had mislaid the brooch, but the jeweler, with a laugh,
lifted it out of a tray a moment later.

"I saw you lay it down," he said. "We jewelers have to be on
the watch. Here it is. I'll just put it in a box, and--"