The hubbub brought aid. Around the nearest corner came a well-dressed young man, piloting a policeman on the run. A moment, and around another corner came another well-dressed young man with another policeman.
Next, “Cut for it!” Agatha heard a voice exclaim—a deep voice. But, strangely enough, the gipsies did not attempt to get away. They stood and grinned at the little crowd that had gathered.
Mr. McVicar sprang to Agatha’s side. He was panting and—could it be true?—gurgling what sounded like words!
Agatha smiled at him through the dim light. He had protected her. Her hand crept into his. Then she gave a fresh cry of fear. His fingers were wet—with blood.
“Oh, he’s wounded!” she called.
“Did he bite you?” demanded one of the policemen—the one who had the man-gipsy by the coat. “Well, here—bite him back! The dog!”
“I did not bite him,” protested the man-gipsy. “It was the monkey.”
“Where is that monkey?” shouted the woman-gipsy. “Say, you fellows, hunt him up. If we lose him we’re out twenty plunks.”
Three or four of the onlookers scattered in different directions, searching.
“Shut up, you she-devil!” ordered the second officer.