“Me!” gurgled Phelan. “Me! an’ walk into the 151 arms o’ Sergeant McGinnis. Let ’em stay out, whoever it is, or yez go yersilf.”
“All right,” said Barnes, “and in case it should be your friend McGinnis you better go and hide in the kitchen, like a brave officer. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come out.”
Phelan did not budge as Barnes left the room, but stood muttering to himself: “How the divvil did I iver let mesilf in fer this thing––I dunno! That’s what love does to yez––a plague on all women! If”–––
“Helen, Helen, where are you?” cried a shrill feminine voice that seemed to clutch the very heart of Michael Phelan with a grip of ice.
“Howly murther! What’s that?” he breathed, backing away from the door.
“Help! Murder! Police!” was borne in on him in even more agonized tones, and before he could move another step Mrs. Elvira Burton burst into the room––flushed and wild-eyed––in the throes of one of her famous fits of hysterics.
Phelan took a backward leap as she came toward him, and she yelled:
“Stop! stop! Where’s my niece?”
With his eyes almost out on his cheeks Phelan managed to articulate:
“What, ma’am?”