Officer Flynn continued, “And we was ready to run the gipsies in when the young gent up and skedaddled.”
“So did I,” protested Agatha, but the lieutenant scowled only at Mr. McVicar. “I made him,” added Agatha stoutly, after which she resolved into tears again.
“Now, now,” comforted the lieutenant. “Till me, how come y’ t’ be down in this ind of th’ town, anyhow?”
“I am concerned,” sobbed Agatha, “with the phenomena of social evolution.”
“Ah!” said the lieutenant; “sittlements.”
“So—so,” she struggled on, “to-night I started for Jones Street——”
“Jones Street!” said the lieutenant. Again his scowl was fixed upon the escort. “Young man, phwat was y’ doin’ in Greene?”
All eyes were upon Mr. McVicar—the lieutenant’s with suspicion, the gipsies’ with bold delight, the policemen’s curiously, Agatha’s in appeal. Mr. McVicar was now all tints—even those uncertain, elusive ones that are so much affected in nouveau art. His lips moved spasmodically, uttering inaudible words.
“SPEAK!” thundered the lieutenant impatiently.
“Yes, speak.” This from the grinning gipsies, sotto voce.