suddenly appeared, as though materialised out of the fog. One minute he was not there, the next minute he was—so at least it seemed to the rather superheated imaginations of the two watchers. Then as the mist rolled back still more, a little scene appeared, as though set on a stage.
The big blue policeman, a scarlet pillar box, and on the right of the road the outlines of a white house.
“Red, white, and blue,” said Tommy. “It’s damned pictorial. Come on, Tuppence, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
For, as he had already seen, the policeman was a real policeman.
And moreover, he was not nearly so gigantic as he had at first seemed looming up out of the mist.
But as they started forward, footsteps came from behind them. A man passed them, hurrying along. He turned in at the gate of the White House, ascended the steps, and beat a deafening tattoo upon the knocker. He was admitted just as they reached the spot where the policeman was standing staring after him.
“There’s a gentleman seems to be in a hurry,” commented the policeman.
He spoke in a slow reflective voice, as of one whose thoughts took some time to mature.
“He’s the sort of gentleman always would be in a hurry,” remarked Tommy.
The policeman’s stare, slow and rather suspicious, came round to rest on his face.
“Friend of yours?” he demanded, and there was distinct suspicion now in his voice.