Julia came scuttling down the steps.
"Be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "Whatever are we to do? She's coming down—they're both coming down. They are going over to the Ritz for supper. The best man is giving a party. Oh, my soul! Can't you do anything, McFaddan?"
"Not until you unlock the gate," groaned McFaddan, perspiring freely.
"There she is!" cried Stuyvesant, pointing up the stairs. "Now, will you believe me?"
"Get out of sight, you!" whispered McFaddan violently, addressing the bewildered policemen. "Get back in the hall and don't breathe,—do you hear me? As for you—" Cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his arm checked the torrent.
Lady Jane was standing at the top of the steps, peering intently downward.
"What is it, Cricklewick?" she called out.
"Nothing, my lady,—nothing at all," the butler managed to say with perfect composure. "Merely a couple of newspaper reporters asking for—ahem—an interview. Stupid blighters! I—I sent them away in jolly quick order."
"Isn't that one of them still standing at the top of the steps?" inquired she.
"It's—it's only the night-watchman," said McFaddan.