They hurried forward. Each thoroughfare seemed to grow narrower and gloomier than the last. They turned innumerable corners, Agatha clinging to his arm with increasing timidity. All at once, on turning another corner into a street that looked very much like one they had already traversed, they came face to face with two swarthy-skinned persons, a man and a woman. The pair were evidently gipsies, for the woman wore a red handkerchief upon her head, while big, gold earrings swung against the neck of the man. The latter carried a monkey. He did not get out of the way. Instead, leering, he held out a hand. “Give me da mon for da monk!” he cried. “Hurry!” Agatha entreated. Oh, for Auntie’s brougham now! Instead of hastening, Mr. McVicar faced the man and gave him a resounding cuff upon the ear. Agatha, the sociologist, became that moment just a normal, terror-stricken girl. She screamed. With her cry mingled the raucous protests of the man and the hoarse commands of the woman, for Mr. McVicar now had the former by the shoulders and was shaking him fiercely. The hubbub brought aid. Around the nearest corner came a well-dressed young man, piloting a policeman on the run. A moment, and around another corner came another well-dressed young man with another policeman. Next, “Cut for it!” Agatha heard a voice exclaim--a deep voice. But, strangely enough, the gipsies did not attempt to get away. They stood and grinned at the little crowd that had gathered. Mr. McVicar sprang to Agatha’s side. He was panting and--could it be true?--gurgling what sounded like words! Agatha smiled at him through the dim light. He had protected her. Her hand crept into his. Then she gave a fresh cry of fear. His fingers were wet--with blood. “Oh, he’s wounded!” she called. “Did he bite you?” demanded one of the policemen--the one who had the man-gipsy by the coat. “Well, here--bite him back! The dog!” “I did _not_ bite him,” protested the man-gipsy. “It was the monkey.” “Where is that monkey?” shouted the woman-gipsy. “Say, you fellows, hunt him up. If we lose him we’re out twenty plunks.” Three or four of the onlookers scattered in different directions, searching. “Shut up, you she-devil!” ordered the second officer. “How can we thank you?” said Agatha. “No thanks, miss,” said officer number one. “Just come along, please, for to testify.” At that Mr. McVicar took one of the little fingers that were resting between his and deliberately pinched it! Agatha understood. To go with the officers meant a police station; a police station meant publicity, sniffy servants, hysterical aunt. Agatha was, at times, a girl of resources. She knew they must get away, and she was quick to devise how. “I must help find that poor, little monkey,” she said. “You go on. We’ll follow.” But the officer shook his head. “If you was to miss the station,” said he, “we’d have a poor case. Forget the monkey, miss.”