"Colonel Tarleton!" ejaculated Yorke.
"The handsom' Curnel!" chorused Blossom.
It was indeed the handsome Colonel, who with his white coat buttoned tightly over his chest and around his waist, stood smiling and bowing behind the chair of Berry Blossom.
"You did not tell any one of the back door," cried Yorke,—"If you did—"
"Why then, (you were about to remark I believe,) we should have a great many more persons in the room, than it would be pleasant for you to see, just now."
The Colonel made one of his most elegant bows as he made this remark. Mr. Yorke bit his nails but made no reply.
"Mr. Blossom, a word with you." The Colonel took the police officer by the arm and led him far back into that part of the room most remote from the table.
"What's up, Mister?" asked Blossom, arranging his turban.
As they stood there, in the gloom which pervaded that part of the room, the Colonel answered him with a low and significant whisper:
"Do you remember that old ruffian who was charged last night in the cars with—"