But Beekman felt very wide awake. His conversation with Leslie the night before in the Pallet-Searing cosy-corner, and his successful night's work had gone to his head like wine. And it was this condition that led him to purchase a handful of shot; and now, regardless of the fact that he was operating on the residence that had cost ten million dollars, more or less, and, in fact, regardless of consequences, he took his station in the middle of the Drive and selecting half a dozen missiles from his pocket, he flung them lightly through the air, aiming for a wide window-pane on the third story of the house. Three times he did this. The fourth time he was stopped by a voice calling out:
"Hi, there!"
Turning quickly Beekman found himself confronted with the majesty of the law.
"What're you trying to do?" demanded the officer. "Isn't it a bit early in the morning, or a bit late in the evening, to be out on a drunk? What's doin', anyway?"
Beekman grinned, desisting, nevertheless.
"A bit of old-time romance," he explained; "trying to wake her up, that's all."
"Is her name Norah?" demanded the blue-coat, threateningly.
Beekman glanced aloft; then he plucked the officer by the sleeve.
"Look for yourself," he rejoined, "and see.... Is that Norah up there?"
While the officer scanned the housetop, Beekman gazed innocently out over the Hudson.