“As I have always contended,” puts in Tidman, “the commercial mind is much over-rated.  Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends with a percentage fraction.  In England, now, we—­”

“Well, Peters?” breaks in T. Waldo, glancin’ annoyed towards the double doors, where the butler is teeterin’ back and forth on his toes.

“If you please, sir,” says Peters, registerin’ deep agitation, “might I have a word with you in—­er—­in private, sir?”

“Nonsense, Peters,” says Waldo.  “Don’t be mysterious about silly housekeeping trifles.  What is it?  Come, speak up, man.”

“As you like, sir,” goes on Peters.  “It—­it’s about the laundress, sir.  She’s sitting on a man in the basement, sir.”

“Wha-a-at?” gasps Waldo.

Tidman takes it out by droppin’ a book.

“A dangerous character, we think, sir,” says the butler—­“most likely one of a gang of burglars.  Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir.  Then she grappled him, sir.”

“Oh, dear!” groans Tidman, his face goin’ putty-colored.

“The deuce!” says Waldo.  “And you say the laundress has him—­er—­”

“Quite secure, sir,” says Peters.  “Both hands in his hair and she sitting on his chest, sir.”

“But—­but this can’t go on indefinitely,” says Waldo.  “I suppose something ought to be done about it.”

“I should suggest sending for the police, sir,” says Peters.

“Bother!” says Waldo.  “That means my going to police court, and having the thing in the papers, and—­ Why, Tidman, what’s the matter?”

The tutor sure was takin’ it hard.  His thin, bony fingers are clutchin’ the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin’ out on his brow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin’ at Peters.

“She’s such a heavy female—­Mrs. Flynn,” groans Tidman.  “Right on his chest, too!”

“Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the night flourishing firearms and demanding valuables,” says Waldo.

“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?”