"What are you doing in there?" asked the male duettist, approaching the thing from another angle.
"I'm dressing, I keep telling you."
There was another pause. And then into this tense debate there entered a third party.
"What's all this?" said the new-comer sharply.
George recognised the voice of his old friend Hamilton Beamish.
"Garroway," said Hamilton Beamish, with an annoyed severity, "what the devil are you doing, hanging about outside this lady's door? Upon my soul," proceeded Mr. Beamish warmly, "I'm beginning to wonder what the duties of the New York constabulary are. Their life seems to consist of an endless leisure, which they employ in roaming about and annoying women. Are you aware that the lady inside there is my fiancée and that she is dressing in order to dine with me at a restaurant?"
Officer Garroway, as always, cringed before the superior intelligence.
"I am extremely sorry, Mr. Beamish."
"So you ought to be. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"There has been some little trouble down below on the premises of the Purple Chicken, and I was violently assaulted by Mr. Finch. I followed him up here on the fire-escape...."