ith a ten thousand dollar check."

"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.

"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind is
much over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends
with a percentage fraction. In England, now, we--"

"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the double
doors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.

"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might I
have a word with you in--er--in private, sir?"

"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about silly
housekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."

"As you like, sir," goes on Peters. "It--it's about the laundress,
sir. She's sitting on a man in the basement, sir."

"Wha-a-at?" gasps Waldo.

Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.

"A dangerous character, we think, sir," says the butler--"most likely
one of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the
coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him,
sir."

"Oh, dear!" groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.

"The deuce!" says Waldo. "And you say the laundress has him--er--"

"Quite secure, sir," says Peters. "Both hands in his hair and she
sitting on his chest, sir."

"But--but this can't go on indefinitely," says Waldo. "I suppose
something ought to be done about it."

"I should suggest sending for the police, sir," says Peters.

"Bother!" says Waldo. "That means my going to police court, and having
the thing in the papers, and-- Why, Tidman, what's the matter?"

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!"