“So did I,” protested Agatha, but the lieutenant scowled only at Mr. McVicar. “I _made_ him,” added Agatha stoutly, after which she resolved into tears again. “Now, now,” comforted the lieutenant. “Till me, how come y’ t’ be down in this ind of th’ town, anyhow?” “I am concerned,” sobbed Agatha, “with the phenomena of social evolution.” “Ah!” said the lieutenant; “sittlements.” “So--so,” she struggled on, “to-night I started for Jones Street----” “_Jones_ Street!” said the lieutenant. Again his scowl was fixed upon the escort. “Young man, phwat was y’ doin’ in _Greene_?” All eyes were upon Mr. McVicar--the lieutenant’s with suspicion, the gipsies’ with bold delight, the policemen’s curiously, Agatha’s in appeal. Mr. McVicar was now all tints--even those uncertain, elusive ones that are so much affected in _nouveau_ art. His lips moved spasmodically, uttering inaudible words. “SPEAK!” thundered the lieutenant impatiently. “Yes, speak.” This from the grinning gipsies, _sotto voce_. Agatha stepped forward. “Officer,” she said, “he’s deaf and dumb, but he reads the lips.” “And writes with his toes,” announced the man-gipsy. Agatha cast him a withering glance. Then she lifted her face to the escort. “Why--were--we--in Greene--Street?” He was now startlingly scarlet. After a little indecision he took out his pad and wrote, “I was trying to shake the gipsies.” He showed the page to Agatha. “Of course,” said she. Then, to the lieutenant, “He was trying to shake the gipsies.” “He succeeded,” cried the man-gipsy. “He shook loose my four-dollar earrings and a twenty-dollar monkey.” This statement was hailed with mirth from the rear. The maudlin occupants of Number 3 joined in noisily. Even the policemen smiled. The next moment one of the latter gave a shout of triumph. “Lieutenant,” he announced excitedly, “this dago is wearin’ a wig!” He pointed at the black mop of hair that hung down over the temples of the man-gipsy. The man-gipsy drew himself up haughtily. “I am _not_ a dago,” said he, with dignity. Then, to the lieutenant, “Your eminence, he insults me.” Agatha’s eyes were keen. “The other one, too,” she whispered. Officer Flynn seized the wide, scarlet kerchief on the gipsy woman’s head and gave it a jerk. It came away--with it a full and ropy coiffure. “Stung!” cried the woman. Now, shorn of its late protection, her head was masculine in appearance, the short, brown hair showing itself to be well cut and carefully kept. When Officer Flynn had plucked off the man-gipsy’s wig there was disclosed another head no less modishly barbered. The lieutenant was a man of long experience. “College,” said he. The woman-gipsy bowed. “You are inspired.” From behind them came sounds of suffering--the five gentlemen in the rear were bent to the floor. Seeing them, the gipsies fell to chortling shrilly. The lieutenant was turning the leaves of the book. “Inspired nothin’,” said he. “Whin Oi see a youngster makin’ a jackass of himself----”