"Counterfeiters," Jimmie went on, "is the desperatest kind of criminals there is. Still we got to git 'em. I'll look round this room just so as nothing won't escape us, and then we'll go up to the next floor. It's good we got two of them located in the bridal suite."
Jimmie, with his prying dark lantern and his prodding nightstick, soon reached the space under the table, and the counterfeiters secreted there.
"I got 'em," he cried delightedly. "Hi, you. Come out of there and show yourselves."
They came. There was nothing else to do.
"Moses's holy aunt," cried Jimmie, falling back upon Horace, who promptly fell back upon the sofa.
"Here, you," said Mead. "You get out of this, both of you. Don't you know this is a private sitting-room?"
"No settin'-room," said Jimmie, recovering somewhat, "is private to them as sets under tables blackening one another's eyes."
"You ridiculous idiot," snorted Mead. "Do you dare to think that I hurt this lady?"
"Lady? Ain't she your wife?"
"She is not," snapped Kate.