"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!" 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