otherwise, or utter a word of explanation, a heavy footfall crunched
along the walk, and a burly police officer, his star gleaming ominously
in the dull light, rounded the corner a dozen feet away. Neither of us
stirred, staring into each other's bewildered faces, and before either
fully realized the situation, the strong, suspicious hand of the law
had gripped my shoulder.

"Here, now, an' what the hell are ye oop too, me fine buck?" he
questioned roughly, swinging me about into the light. "Give an account
o' yer-self moighty quick, 'er I 'll run ye in."

Startled, recalling the money hidden in my pocket, the last injunction
of Neale, I could think of no excuse, no explanation. The girl, still
staring blankly at me, must have perceived how I instinctively shrank
back, my lips moving in an impotent effort at speech. Some sudden
impulse changed her fright into sympathy. However it was the officer
who impatiently broke the silence, swinging his night stick menacingly:

"Come on now, me lad, hav' ye lost yer voice entoirely? Spake oop
loively--whut ther hell are the two ov' yer oop to, onyhow?"

She started forward, just a step.

"Nothing in the least wrong, officer," her voice trembling slightly,
yet sounding clearly distinct. "He--he was merely accompanying me home
from a dance."

"Whut dance?"

"Over--over there on 43rd Street."