“This is a fine thing to happen just now! The fellow must be got out of the way, and kept safe until I have time to discover his racket. He’s not such a fool as he looks. Can’t you get in a policeman quietly? We don’t want any servants to gossip over it, or to see me.”
Alan turns his face toward the closet. “Can’t we lock him up again?” he suggests.
“My dear sir,” says Grip coolly, “this fellow is probably a spy.”
“What!” Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder. Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, “nonsense; look at that stolid countenance.”
“Umph!” mutters Grip; “too much hair and dirt.” Then turning toward the side window: “I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get in a policeman somehow; try the window.”
As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state of utter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp of Mr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew his pleading, terrified pantomine.
“Ah,” says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, “this window must have been the place where he entered.” Then, after a prolonged look up and down the street: “I don’t see an officer anywhere.”
“No; I presume not. Try the other windows.”
“The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds.”
“Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and come and guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment.”