“He’s gone up the chimney, that’s what he’s done,” said the tenor. “That’s what he’s done,” said the bass, putting the matter in his own way, “he’s gone up the chimney.” William Bailey put his head in and looked up the flue, the top of which was a little square of blue June sunlight above. “I don’t see him,” said he. The constables, one after the other, solemnly performed the same feat. “A man couldn’t get up that,” said Bailey stoutly. “Ah, _Stappy_ could,” said the bass in a tone of one who talks of an old acquaintance, “Stappy could get out of anywhere, or through anything! He’s a wonderful man, sir!” Suddenly the tenor solved the whole business. “He’s on the roof!” he said. Nothing would suit them but ladders must be brought, and they must climb upon the slates, while William Bailey, consoling himself with the thought that the property was not his, took the opportunity of dashing up to the bathroom and banging at the door. “Dimmy, Dimmy!” he whispered loudly, “Dimmy, get out.” “I’m all wet,” said Dimmy. “You’re used to that,” said Bailey unfeelingly. “Dry your feet. Never mind the rest. Quick!” He threw a dressing-gown in, and Dimmy, as clean as Sunday morning, emerged. “Are your feet quite dry, Dimmy?” “Yes,” said that great Commoner, still a trifle ruffled. “Well then, let me think.... Go in there.” He pushed Demaine into a little writing-room that gave out of the corridor. “Now then, go to that little table and sit perfectly tight. Do as I tell you and you are saved. Depart-by-but-one-iota-from-my-specific-instructions-and though you’ll ultimately be redeemed by your powerful relatives from the ignominy of incarceration, you cannot fail to become a laughing-stock before your fellow-citizens! Do you take me, Dimmy?” Dimmy, who like the rest of the family was never quite certain whether William Bailey’s final outbreak into downright lunacy might not take place at any moment, suddenly sat where he was bid, and his cousin returned within thirty seconds bearing a woman’s walking-cloak and a respectable bonnet which, I regret to say, were those of Parrett herself. Bailey huddled the cloak upon the younger man, banged the bonnet upon his head, tied the ribbons under his chin, disposed his person with the back to the door, in the attitude of one writing a note, and said: “Dimmy, could you talk in a high voice?” “No, I can’t!” said Dimmy. “Try. Say ‘Oh don’t, I’m busy.’” “I can’t!” said Dimmy again. “Great heavens! is there no limit to the things you can’t do?” said William Bailey testily. “Try.” At a vast sacrifice of that self-respect which was his chiefest treasure, Dimmy uttered the grotesque words in a faint falsetto. “Excellent!” said William Bailey. “Now when you hear the word ‘Rebecca’ that’s your cue. Say it again.” The second step is easier than the first, and Dimmy this time replied at once, the falsetto quite just: “Oh don’t, I’m busy.” And William Bailey was satisfied.