POLICEMAN. Can’t say I have, sir. But I’ll make inquiries at the Yard. BODIE. It was really I who gave her that name, because she seemed such a poor little neglected waif. After the girl in the story-book, you know. POLICEMAN. No, sir, I don’t know. In the Force we find it impossible to keep up with current fiction. BODIE. She was a girl with a broom. There must have been more in the story than that, but I forget the rest. POLICEMAN. The point is, that’s not the name she calls herself by. BODIE. Yes, indeed it is. I think she was called something else when she came, Miss Thing, or some such name; but she took to the name of Cinderella with avidity, and now she absolutely denies that she ever had any other. POLICEMAN. Parentage? BODIE (_now interested in his tale_). That’s another odd thing. I seem to remember vaguely her telling me that her parents when alive were very humble persons indeed. Touch of Scotch about her, I should say—perhaps from some distant ancestor; but Scotch words and phrases still stick to the Cockney child like bits of egg-shell to a chicken. POLICEMAN (_writing_). Egg-shell to chicken. BODIE. I find, however, that she has lately been telling the housekeeper quite a different story. POLICEMAN (_like a counsel_). Proceed. BODIE. According to this, her people were of considerable position—a Baron and Baroness, in fact. POLICEMAN. Proceed. BODIE. The only other relatives she seems to have mentioned are two sisters of unprepossessing appearance. POLICEMAN (_cleverly_). If this story is correct, what is she doing here? BODIE. I understand there is something about her father having married again, and her being badly treated. She doesn’t expect this to last. It seems that she has reason to believe that some very remarkable change may take place in her circumstances at an early date, at a ball for which her godmother is to get her what she calls an invite. This is evidently to be a very swagger function at which something momentous is to occur, the culminating moment being at midnight. POLICEMAN (_writing_). Godmother. Invite. Twelve P.M. Fishy! Tell me about them boards now. BODIE (_who is evidently fond of the child_). You can’t think how wistful she is to get hold of boards. She has them on the brain. Carries them off herself into the unknown. POLICEMAN. I daresay she breaks them up for firewood. BODIE. No; she makes them into large boxes. POLICEMAN (_sagaciously_). Very likely to keep things in. BODIE. She has admitted that she keeps things in them. But what things? Ask her that, and her mouth shuts like a trap. POLICEMAN. Any suspicions? (MR. BODIE _hesitates. It seems absurd to suspect this waif—and yet!_) BODIE. I’m sorry to say I have. I don’t know what the things are, but I do know they are connected in some way with Germany. POLICEMAN (_darkly_). Proceed. BODIE (_really troubled_). Officer, she is too curious about Germany. POLICEMAN. That’s bad.