In another instant, Grip has pounced upon the luckless organ-grinder, and dragged him into the centre of the room, where he crouches at Alan’s feet, the very image of terrified misery, limp and unresisting.
“That’s a pretty thing to keep hid away!” snarled the now thoroughly angry detective. “I’ve heard of skeletons in closets, but this thing looks more like a monkey.”
“More like a sneak thief, I should say,” remarks Alan, with aggravating coolness. “And a very cowardly one at that.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
“WE TWO WILL MEET AGAIN.”
““That’s a pretty thing to keep hid away!” snarls the now thoroughly angry detective.”—[page 278].
There may have been times in Alan Warburton’s life—such times come to most fastidious city-bred people—when he doubted the wisdom of Providence in permitting the “street musician” to inherit the earth, and, especially to transport so much of his “heritage,” wheresoever he might go, upon his person. But to-day, for the first time, he fancies that he sees some reason for the existence of the species, and he finds himself looking down almost complacently upon the crouching minstrel who has lawlessly invaded the sanctity of his splendid cabinet.