whisper restored Cricklewick to his natural position as a superior.
"You go ahead and see what they want," he said.
"What's wrong with your going first?" demanded Cricklewick, holding back.
"I suddenly remembered that the cops wouldn't know what to think if they saw me in this rig," confessed McFaddan, ingratiatingly. "They might drop dead, you know."
"You can explain that you're attending a fancy dress party," said Cricklewick earnestly. "I am a respectable, dignified merchant and I—"
"Go on, man! If you need me I'll be waitin' at the top of the steps. They don't know you from Adam, so what's there to be afraid of?"
Fortified by McFaddan's promise, Cricklewick descended to the barred and locked grating.
"What's goin' on here?" demanded the burliest policeman he had ever seen. The second bluecoat shook the gate till it rattled on its hinges.
Mr. Cricklewick was staring, open-mouthed but speechless, at the figure behind the policemen.
"Open up," commanded the second officer. "Get a move on."
"We got to see what kind of a joint this is, uncle. This gentleman says something's been goin' on here for the past month to his certain knowledge,—"
"Just a moment," broke in Cricklewick, hastily covering the lower part of his face with his hand,—that being the nearest he could come, under the circumstances, to emulating the maladroit ostrich. "I will call Mr.—"
