Agatha stepped forward. “Officer,” she said, “he’s deaf and dumb, but he reads the lips.”
“And writes with his toes,” announced the man-gipsy.
Agatha cast him a withering glance. Then she lifted her face to the escort. “Why—were—we—in Greene—Street?”
He was now startlingly scarlet. After a little indecision he took out his pad and wrote, “I was trying to shake the gipsies.” He showed the page to Agatha.
“Of course,” said she. Then, to the lieutenant, “He was trying to shake the gipsies.”
“He succeeded,” cried the man-gipsy. “He shook loose my four-dollar earrings and a twenty-dollar monkey.”
This statement was hailed with mirth from the rear. The maudlin occupants of Number 3 joined in noisily. Even the policemen smiled.
The next moment one of the latter gave a shout of triumph. “Lieutenant,” he announced excitedly, “this dago is wearin’ a wig!” He pointed at the black mop of hair that hung down over the temples of the man-gipsy.
The man-gipsy drew himself up haughtily. “I am not a dago,” said he, with dignity. Then, to the lieutenant, “Your eminence, he insults me.”
Agatha’s eyes were keen. “The other one, too,” she whispered.