“I am for telephoning the authorities at once,” announces Cecil.

“Ah, you don’t know our bonehead cops,” says I.  “Besides, if we can block the game ourselves, what’s the use?  Let’s get ’em in the act.  I’m going to pipe off our friend with the meat-knife.”

“I—­I’ve only a .34-caliber automatic with me,” says the Lieutenant, reachin’ into his side pocket.

“Well, you don’t want a machine-gun, do you?” says I.  “And don’t go shootin’ reckless.  Here, lemme get on the other side.  Close to the house, now, on the grass, until we can get a peek around the—­”

“S-s-s-sh!” says Cecil, grippin’ my arm.  He was strong on shushin’ me up, the Lieutenant was.  This time, though, he had the right dope; for a few steps more and we got a view of the back porch.

And there are the two maids, hand in hand, watchin’ the motions of the squatty gent, who is unlockin’ the summer-house.  He disappears inside.

At that Cecil just has to cut loose.  Before I can stop him, he’s stepped out, pulled his gun, and is wavin’ it at the two females.

“I say, now!  Hands up!  No nonsense,” he orders.

“Howly saints!” wails the square-built party, clutchin’ the slim one desperate.  “Maggie!  Maggie!”

Maggie she’s turned pale in the gills, her mouth is hangin’ open, and her eyes are bugged, but she ain’t too scared to put up an argument.

“Have yez a warrant?” she demands.  “Annyways, my Cousin Tim Fealey’ll go bail for us.  An’ if it was that Swede janitor next door made the complaint on us I’ll—­”

“Woman!” breaks in the Lieutenant.  “Don’t you know that you have been apprehended in a grave offense?  You’d best tell all.  Now, who put you up to this?  Your master, eh?”

“Howly saints!  Mr. Bauer!” groans the fat one.

“For the love of the saints, don’t tell him!” says Maggie.  “Don’t tell Mr. Bauer, there’s a dear.  It was off’m Cousin Tim we got it.”

“That miscreant in the shed there?” asks the Lieutenant.

“Him?” says Maggie.  “Lord love ye, no.  That’s only Schwartzenberger, from the slaughter-house.  And please, Mister, it’ll be gone the mornin’—­ivry bit gone.”

“Oh, will it!” says Cecil sarcastic.  “But you’ll be in prison first.”

“Wurra!  Wurra!” moans the fat female.  “Save us, Maggie!  Let him have it for the takin’s.”

“I will not, then,” says Maggie.  “Not if he’s the president of the Board of Health himself.”

“Enough of this,” says the Lieutenant.  “Hands up, you bomb plotters!”

But about then I’d begun to acquire the hunch that we might be makin’ a slight mistake, and that it was time for me to crash in.  Which I does.

“Excuse me,” says I; “but maybe it would help, Maggie, if you’d say right out what it is you’ve got in the shed there.”

“What is ut?” says she, tossin’ her head defiant.  “As though you didn’t know!  Well, it’s a pig, then.”