His eye fell upon George: and he uttered that low, sinister growl which is heard only from the throats of leopards seeking their prey, tigers about to give battle, and New York policemen who come unexpectedly upon men who have thrown table-cloths over them and hit them in the eye.
"So there you are!" said Officer Garroway.
He poised his night-stick in his hand, and moved softly forward. Molly flung herself in his path with a cry.
"Stop!"
"Miss," said the policeman, courteously as was his wont in the presence of the sex. "Oblige me by getting to hell out of here."
"Garroway!"
The policeman wheeled sharply. Only one man in the world would have been able to check his dreadful designs at that moment, and that man had now joined the group. Clad in a sweater and a pair of running-shorts, Hamilton Beamish made a strangely dignified and picturesque figure as he stood there with the moonlight glinting on his horn-rimmed spectacles. He wore soft shoes with rubber soles, and he was carrying a pair of dumb-bells. Hamilton Beamish was a man who lived by schedule: and not all that he had passed through that day could blur his mind to the fact that this was the hour at which he did his before-retiring dumb-bell exercises.
"What is the trouble, Garroway?"
"Well, Mr. Beamish...."
Confused voices interrupted him.