The gate of "The Larches" was less than five feet away. As Dennis looked up I strode towards it, turned boldly in at the gate with my bundle held in front of me, and almost ran into him.
"Why don't you look where's you're going?" I snarled.
"Laundry!" I added, and thrust the bundle at him.
This was too much.
"I don't want the sanguinary copulating laundry," howled
Dennis, who had been under a great strain that night. "Laundry," I persisted. "For Mrs. M'Corseter, Valley Road. She said it was urgent."
Dennis was so angry that, when he blew the police whistle, even the blast had a shaky querulousness. Through the hall door, half open, I could see the sergeant, followed by Bowers and Mrs. Antrim, going to cover the back door; if they turned round, it was nemesis and clink. I had to keep my voice to a hoarse plaintive mutter of the same sort. I thought of attempting to alter my countenance in that fashion which police tradition attributes to Charles Peace, but I decided on the value of artistic restraint. Although Dennis was momentarily off-guard, he might not care for the spectacle of a laundryman snaking faces at him in the front garden.
"Next door, he snapped. "She would," he added, apparently referring to Mrs. M'C. "Clear off! — stop a bit! Have you seen.?"
I said I hadn't. "But here! What do you fellows want to go crawling about on the roofs for? I saw a policeman climbing up on that there roof," I declared in an aggrieved tone, "and"
"Ah!" said Dennis. "Clear out, now!"