Presently Dorothy's ears caught the sound of footsteps thumping on the porch. The lame man limped into the room and sized up the situation at a glance.
"Stop that scrapping, you two!" he commanded. "Stop it, Sadie! Do you hear me? Stop it at once!"
The red-haired girl glared at him, but she obeyed. There was a dangerous finality in his tone that debarred argument. She swept over to the table, and deliberately turning her back upon the others, poured herself a cup of coffee.
"Mike!" barked the Italian. "Go out and give the others a hand. We've got a couple of invalids with us. I've already administered first aid, but they will have to be carried upstairs and put to bed. Hustle, now!"
Mike disappeared through the door without a word. This little lame person seemed to brook no opposition. He was probably the brain and the leader of this gang, thought Dorothy--but he was speaking to her now.
"Good evening again, Miss Dixon! I felt somehow certain we were fated to meet a third time tonight!" His glance snapped from her to Sadie and back again. "Sorry we had to 'bag' you, as it were--hope you suffered no great inconvenience?"
"Oh, I'm all right," she replied coolly.
"But I notice that your sweater is torn in several places. You will excuse me?--but you look rather rumpled. I got the impression that you and the young lady who is at present drinking coffee might have had--a difference of opinion, shall we say?"
"No. These tears in my sweater were caused by accident. Miss Martinelli had nothing to do with it."
"So you know her name! But, of course you would. That bicarbonate of soda proved a boomerang. Too bad she really needed it at the time. It's a lesson to us, to remember that servant girls are likely to be lazy."