words, shouted rather than spoken. It was uncanny, of course,
coming as it did through the register at our feet. Mr. Harbison
looked startled.

"Oh, by the way," I said, as carelessly as I could. "In the
excitement, I forgot to mention it. There is a policeman asleep
in the furnace room. I--I suppose we will have to keep him now,"
I finished as airily as possible.

"Oh, a policeman--in the cellar," he repeated, staring at me, and
he moved toward the pantry door.

"You needn't go down," I said feverishly, with visions of Bella
Knowles sitting on the kitchen table, surrounded by soiled dishes
and all the cheerless aftermath of a dinner party. "Please don't
go down. I--it's one of my rules--never to let a stranger go down
to the kitchen. I--I'm peculiar--that way--and besides,
it's--it's mussy."

Bang! Crash! through the register pipe, and some language quite
articulate. Then silence.

"Look here, Mrs. Wilson," he said resolutely. "What do I care
about the kitchen? I'm going down and arrest that policeman for
disturbing the peace. He will have the pipes down."

"You must not go," I said with desperate firmness. "He--he is
probably in a very dangerous state just now. We--I--locked him
in."