“It’s a parlourmaid’s place to open the front door to visitors. Them that don’t come in through windows.”

I perceived that I was getting the loser’s end of the thing. I tried to be conciliatory.

“My dear old parlourmaid,” I said, “don’t let us descend to vulgar wrangling. All I’m driving at is that there is a photograph of me in the drawing-room, cared for and dusted by whom I know not; and this photograph will, I think, prove to you that I am an old friend of the family. I fancy so, officer?”

“If it’s there,” said the man, in a grudging way.

“Oh, it’s there all right. Oh, yes, it’s there.”

“Well, we’ll go to the drawing-room and see.”

“Spoken like a man, my dear old policeman,” I said.