But here a jab of the night stick took him in the side with a sound like a blow on a punching bag. Words left the old man and he gasped desperately for breath. O'Keefe tried to shake him.
"Did you get those pajamas in here?" he demanded fiercely, and he drew back his stick as though for another jab. But the old geezer nodded quickly, glaring at me and trying to wheeze something.
"That's enough," said the officer. He turned to me. "You recognize them, do you, sir?"
"I—I think so," I stammered, looking at Jenkins, who nodded. "They belong to a friend of mine who—a—must have left them here."
"I see." He fished out a note-book. "Mind giving me the name, sir? Just a matter of form, you know—" He licked his pencil expectantly.
"Oh, I say, you know—" I gasped at Jenkins. "I don't think she—I—"
"Certainly not, sir," affirmed Jenkins, solemnly looking upward.
"She?" The note-book slowly closed, then with the pencil went back into the officer's pocket. "Excuse me, sir. H'm!"
"H'm!" echoed Tim apologetically. Then they both glared at Foxy.
The old man just snarled at them. He was like a dog at bay.