“It is a trick,” he declared, “a mean, contemptible trick, and I am mostly to blame for it. But it has gone far enough.”
Agatha gave a cry of amazement. It was the deep voice she had heard when the officers were approaching. And it was his! This was not gurgling: this was speech! She sank upon a bench, her face hidden in the crook of one trembling arm, and began to sob wildly.
“Lieutenant,” went on the deep voice, “I ask you to save this young lady from notoriety.”
The lieutenant promptly leaned far over and addressed the woman-gipsy. “Ye git,” said he harshly, “an’ yer gang wid ye. An’ if Oi hear of y’ givin’ anny names——”
The woman-gipsy held up a defensive hand. “Now that the dumb hath spoken,” said she, “far be it from me to bring grief——”
“Hike!” interrupted the lieutenant.
The gipsies stole out, after them the five well-dressed young men. Next the officers saluted the desk and passed Agatha with pitying glances. Only the reporter remained.
“Say,” said the lieutenant to him, “Oi’ve give y’ manny a scoop, ain’t Oi?”
“Yes,” said the reporter, “you have.”
“Wull, thin. An’ d’ye know yere missin’ th’ story of yer loife this siccond?”