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Updated: May 27, 2025
Then we all sat down and had some champagne, and while they were waiting for the police wagon, they gave some to poor McGuirk. He was still quite shaken from his experience when the dumb-waiter stuck. The wine cheered him a little, and he told his story, in a voice that was creaky from disuse, while Tom held my hand under the table.
"A celebrity in his particular line, which is second-story man and all-round rascal. A victim of the quarantine, like ourselves." "We've missed him for a week," one of the guards said with a grin. "We've been real anxious about you, Tubby. Ain't a week goes by, when you're in health, that we don't hear something of you." Mr. McGuirk muttered something under his breath, and the men chuckled.
The wagon came for him just as he finished his story, and we all went to the door. In the vestibule Aunt Selina suddenly remembered something, and she stepped forward and caught the poor fellow by the arm. "Young man," she said grimly. "I'll thank you to return what you took from ME last Tuesday night." McGuirk stared, then shuddered and turned suddenly pale. "Good Lord!" he ejaculated.
"On the stairs to the roof! They led him away then, quite broken, with Aunt Selina staring after him. She never did understand. I could have explained, but it was too awful. On the steps McGuirk turned and took a farewell glance at us. Then he waved his hand to the policemen and reporters who had gathered around. "Goodby, fellows," he called feebly. "I ain't sorry, I ain't.
Between them they supported a grimy, unshaven object, covered with whitewash from the wall of the shaft, an object that had its hands fastened together with handcuffs, and that leered at us with a pair of the most villainously crossed eyes I have ever seen. None of us had ever seen him before. "Mr. Lawrence McGuirk, better known as Tubby," Tom said cheerfully.
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