"What's the game, Mr. McFaddan?" inquired one of the policemen, very politely. "I hope we haven't disturbed a party or anything like that. We were sent over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this gentleman, who says—"
"They've got a young girl up there," broke in Stuyvesant. "She's been decoyed into a den of crooks and white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop downstairs. I've had her watched. I—"
"O'Flaherty," cried McFaddan, in a pleading voice, "will ye do me the favour of breaking this damned door down? I'll forgive ye for everything—yes, bedad, I'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed thing off its hinges."
"Ain't this guy straight?" demanded O'Flaherty, turning upon Stuyvesant. "If he's been double-crossing us—"
"I shall report you to the Commissioner of Police," cried Stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate gave signs of yielding. "He is a friend of mine."
"He is a friend of Mr. McFaddan's also," said O'Flaherty, scratching his head dubiously. "I guess you'll have to explain, young feller."
"Ask him to explain," insisted Stuyvie.
"Permit me," interposed Cricklewick, in an agitated voice. "This is a private little fancy dress party. We—"
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Stuyvesant, coming closer to a real American being than he had ever been before in all his life. "It's old Cricklewick! Why, you old roué!"
"I—I—let me help you, McFaddan," cried Cricklewick suddenly. "If we all put our strength to the bally thing, it may give way. Now! All together!"