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.”
“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.
The drawing-room was on the first floor, and the photograph was on the table by the fireplace. Only, if you understand me, it wasn’t. What I mean is, there was the fireplace, and there was the table by the fireplace, but, by Jove, not a sign of any photograph of me whatsoever. * A photograph of Bingo, yes. * A photograph of