time comes, to
hear that chorus of gasps that's let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact.

"Ha!" says the Doc. "As I told you--a red rose!"

"Well, I'll be slam-whizzled!" explodes Old Hickory.

"But--but where did it come from?" pants Piddie. "Who--who could
have----"

And that's just when little Willie, after creepin' cautious along the
fire escape, gives his unsuspectin' victim the snappy elbow tackle from
behind and shoves him into view.

"Here's your desperado!" says I, givin' my man the persuadin' knee in
the small of his back. "Ah, scramble in there, Old Top! You ain't
goin' to be hurt. In with you now!"

"Look out!" squeals Piddie. "Police, police!"

"Ah, can that!" I sings out, helpin' my prisoner through the window and
followin' after. "Police nothin'! Shoo 'em back, will you? He's as
harmless as a kitten."

"Torchy," calls Old Hickory, recoverin' his nerve a little, "what is
the meaning of this, and who have you there?"

"This," says I, straightenin' my man up with a shoulder slap, "is the
bearer of the fifth bouquet--also the fourth, and the third, and so on.
This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin' Company. Ain't
that right, eh, old sport?"

"'Enery Cubbins, Sir," says he, scrapin' his foot polite and jerkin'
off his old cap.

"And was it you who just threw this thing on my desk?" demands Old
Hickory, pointin' to the red rose.

"Meanin' no 'arm at all, Sir, no 'arm at all," says Cubbins.

"And do I understand that you brought those other flowers in the same
way?" goes on Mr. Ellins.

"Not thinkin' you'd mind, Sir," says Cubbins; "but if there's henny
hoffense given, I asks pardon, Sir."

And there couldn't be any mistakin' the genuine tremble in that weak,
pipin' voice, or the meek look in them watery old eyes. For Cubbins is
more or less of a human wreck, when you come to size him up close,--a
thin, bent-shouldered, faded lookin' old party, with wispy, whitish
hair, a peaked red nose, and a peculiar, whimsical quirk to his mouth
corners. Old Hickory looks him over curious for a minute or so.

"Huh!" he grunts at last. "So you're the one, eh? But why the
blue-belted blazes did you do it?"

All Cubbins does, though, is to finger his cap bashful.

"Well, Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, "you seem to be running this show.
Perhaps you'll tell us."

"That's further'n I've got," says I. "You see, when I traced this
floral tribute business down to a window washer, I----