that to shut off
our light--the swine! Bauer, his name is. You ask for Herman Bauer.
Maybe you get in."

"Thanks, old sport," says I, slippin' him the quarter. "Give him your
best regards, shall I?"

And as he goes off chucklin' the Lieutenant whispers hoarse:

"Hah! I knew it. Bauer, eh? And to-night he'll be sitting at one of
those back windows, his ears stuffed with cotton, watching to see your
plant blown up. We must have the constables here right away."

"On what charge?" says I. "That two of the kitchen maids was seen in
their own back yard? You know you can't spring that safety-of-the-realm
stuff over here. The police would only give us the laugh. We got to
have something definite to tell the sergeant. Let's go after it."

"But I say!" protests Cecil. "Just how, you know?"

"Not by stickin' here, anyway," says I. "Kick in and use your bean, is
my program. Come along and see what happens."

So first off we strolls past and has a look at the place. It's shut in
by a rusty iron fence with high spiked pickets. The house sets well back
from the sidewalk, and the front is nearly covered by some sort of vine.
At the side there are double gates openin' into a grass-grown driveway.

I was just noticin' that they was chained and locked when the Lieutenant
gives me a nudge and pulls me along by the coat sleeve. I gets a glimpse
of the square-built female waddlin' around the corner of the house. We
passes by innocent and hangs up in front of a plumbery shop, starin' in
at a fascinatin' display of one bathtub and a second-hand hot-water
boiler. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see her scout up
and down the street, unfasten the gate, and then disappear.

"Huh!" says I. "Kitchen company expected."

"Or more conspirators," adds Cecil. "By Jove! Isn't this one now?"

There's no denyin' he looked the part, this short-legged, long-armed,
heavy-podded gent with the greasy old derby tilted rakish over one ear.
Such a hard face he has, a reg'lar low-brow map, and a neck like a
choppin'-block. His stubby legs are sprung out at the knees, and his
arms have a good deal the same curve.

"Built like a dachshund, ain't he?" I remarks.

"Quite so," says Fothergill. "See, he's stopping. And he has a bundle
under one arm."

"Overalls," says I. "Plumber, maybe."

"Isn't that a knife-handle sticking out of the end of the bundle?" asks
the Lieutenant.

So it was; a butcher knife, at that.