“I think you’d better come along.”

“But I say, really, you know, I am an old friend of the family. Why, by Jove, now I remember, there’s a photograph of me in the drawing-room. Well, I mean, that shows you!”

“If there is,” said the policeman.

“I’ve never seen it,” said the parlourmaid.

I absolutely hated this girl.

“You would have seen it if you had done your dusting more conscientiously,” I said, severely. And I meant it to sting, by Jove!

“It is not a parlourmaid’s place to dust the drawing-room,” she sniffed, haughtily.

“No,” I said, bitterly. “It seems to be a parlourmaid’s place to lurk about and hang about and⁠—er⁠—waste her time fooling about in the garden with policemen who ought to be busy about their duties elsewhere.”