"But—but what will they think?" he gasps breathless.
"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend," says I. "What's your guess?"
"Oh—oh!" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. "I—I had not thought of that."
"Ah, buck up!" say I. "Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'. Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty."
He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. "There's a path through the bushes along here somewhere," says he.
"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me," says I. "We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy."
We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from shadow to shadow, when just as we're passin' the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.
Then out from a second story window floats a voice: "Who is that, please?"
Merry nudges me in the ribs. "Tell them it's you," he whispers.
"Why, it's—it's me—Torchy," says I reluctant.