the avenue maddeningly visible, soon drove all memory of the
Gladwin mansion and the suspicious antics of the "rat-faced little
heathen" out of his mind. His one thought was that Rose would have to
cross over the way at the fall of dusk and trundle her millionaire
infant charge home for its prophylactic pap. There would be a bare
chance for about seven or ten words with Rose. But what was he going
to say?

For one hundred and nine days' running, his days off inclusive,
Michael Phelan had intercepted Rose at that particular corner and
begged her to name the day. The best he ever got was a smile and a
flash of two laughing eyes, followed by the sally:

"Show me $500 in the bank, Michael Phelan, and I'll talk business."

And why didn't Michael Phelan save up $500 out of the more than $100 a
month the city paid him for his services? Rose didn't get a quarter of
that, and she had already saved $300, besides which she sent a
one-pound note home to Ireland every month.

The reason was this--Michael Phelan turned in his wages each month to
his mother, and out of what she allowed him to spend he couldn't have
saved $500 in five hundred years, at least not to his way of thinking.
The trouble was that Rose had more than an inkling of this, and it
galled her to think that her gallant brass-buttoned cop should permit
himself to be still harnessed to his mother's apron strings.

Yes, down in the invisible depths of Rose's heart she was very fond of
the faithful and long-suffering Michael, but even so she couldn't
bring herself to marry a milksop who was likely to make her play
second fiddle to his mother. And when Rose once made up her mind, she
was as grimly determined as she was pretty.

The sun had swung down behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the
trees that bordered the Park wall had begun to trace their shadows on
the marble fronts of the mansions across the way when Rose suddenly
wheeled the gig containing Master Croesus and walked demurely toward
Officer 666.

Michael Phelan blushed till he could feel his back hair singeing, but
he stopped stock still and waited. Rose gave no sign until she was
within half a dozen feet of him. Then she looked up pertly and
exclaimed:

"Why, if it ain't Michael Phelan!"

"It is, Rose, an' with the same question pantin' on his lips," broke
out the young man, his bosom surging and his heart rapping under his
shield.

"And what is that same question, Mr. Phelan?" asked the tan