"I do," replied Mr. Livermore, "and I'll attend to George's case just as soon as I can get Mulberry Street on the telephone."
"Stop!" cried his wife; "we must avoid a scandal."
The doorbell, which had taken such an active part in this eventful evening, now rang again. A silence followed, while the form of Bates was seen to pass through the hall. Then, almost with his accustomed dignity, though somewhat pale and wet about the head, he reappeared.
"Mr. Mickleworth!" he announced.
"I knew it!" Selma cried, with jubilation.
And Mr. Mickleworth it was, in truth, though much disheveled as to dress. A streak of mud lay on his rumpled shirtfront, and his evening coat suggested active combat. From each shoulder hung a nosebag, such as teamsters use for feeding horses in the street, and each bag bulged with priceless silver heirlooms. Behind him came a stalwart minion of the law, bearing the family ice-pitcher on a massive salver.
"Ah, ha!" cried Mr. Livermore complacently. "So, ho! 'Caught with the goods on,' as you say officially. You have done well, officer, and this night's work shall not go unrewarded."
"It wasn't me," the policeman protested ungrammatically; "this here young feller did it all himself."
"That we already know," said Mrs. Livermore.