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?"

"We'd be three to one, not countin' Mrs. Flynn," says I.

"Would you help, really?" he asks eager. "You see, I'm not very
strong. And Tidman--well, you can't count much on him. Besides, how
does one know a burglar by sight?"

"They don't wear uniforms, that's a fact," says I; "but I might ask him
what he was doin' down there and call for proof. Then, if he was only
takin' the meter, why--"

"Of course," says Waldo. "We will--er--you'll do that for me, will you
not? Come along, Tidman. You too, Peters. We'll just find out who
the fellow is."

I must say, it's kind of a draggy rush line they formed, Tidman havin'
to be almost pushed, and Peters keepin' well in the rear. I finds
myself leadin' the assault, with Waldo a bad second, but tellin' me
which turns to make and urgin' Tidman to follow close.

Sure enough, though, there on the laundry floor we discovers the
victorious Mrs. Flynn, a wide, husky party, with something flattened
underneath. About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes and
part of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.

"Thanks be!" says she, sighin' grateful. "It's faint and wake I am
strugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!
There's men to handle ye now, and the coppers'll soon be here. Will ye
take charge of him, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"No, no! Please, Mrs. Flynn!" protests Waldo. "You are doing
excellently. Don't let him up just yet."

"O-o-o-o!" moans the flattened gent. "My poor back!"

"If you could ease up a bit, so we might get a look at him," I
suggests. "We want to see if he's really a burglar."

"He's that, all right," says Mrs. Flynn. "Didn't I catch him
red-handed prowlin' about? But if ye want to see what his ugly mug
looks like, ye may. There! Sit ye up and face the gintlemen!"

She's a shifty party with her hands and feet, for with a couple of body
twists Mrs. Flynn is on her knees behind him with his arms pinned to
the small of