The tutor sure was takin' it hard. His thin, bony fingers are clutchin' the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin' out on his brow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin' at Peters.
"She's such a heavy female—Mrs. Flynn," groans Tidman. "Right on his chest, too!"
"Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the night flourishing firearms and demanding valuables," says Waldo.
"Ugh! Burglars. How—how silly of them to come here! It's so disturbing, and I do dread having the police in. I wish you wouldn't look so ghastly over it, Tidman. Come, suggest something."
But Tidman don't seem to be a good suggester. "Both hands in his hair. Oh!" he mutters.
"It's not your hair," sputters Waldo. "And saying idiotic things like that doesn't help. Not a bit. Must I call the police, or what?"
"The police!" whispers Tidman, hoarse and husky.
"But what else can I do?" demands Waldo. Then he turns to me. "I say, can you think of anything?"
"Seems to me I'd have a look at the gent first," says I. "Mistakes sometimes happen, you know, in the best regulated basements. Might be just a man takin' the meters, or a plumber, or something like that."
"By George, that's so!" says T. Waldo, chirkin' up. "But—er—must I go down there? Suppose he should be a burglar, after all?"