Bill, his mind still working at lightning speed, gazed at the amanuensis in apparent fascination. His object was to invent a method of disposing of the book which while being credible should not admit of corroboration. Supposing he said he had lost it at Folkestone on his way home?... But that might raise the question of the date of his return to England, and he did not want his mother to know that he had been home for some time before coming to her. He might manage to put the police off, but once his mother had got hold of a suspicious fact, there was no balking _her_. "Come on," said the police sergeant impatiently. "What's the matter with you?" "I was just waitin' till the Town Clerk 'ere was ready," he explained with his native impudence. "When did I last see the book? I don't know as I can remember the exact day." "Never mind that. 'Ow did you come to lose it?" The sergeant's patience was wearing thin. Bill, who had now had time to think out his story, took a deep breath. "Last I seen of it," he said, "I lent it to a chap in the Scottish Rifles what come into our dug-out one night--name o' Conky. 'E come in about twenty-past eleven, 'avin' lost 'is way, an' 'e sez...." "'Ere," said the constable at the table, speaking for the first time. "Steady!" "'Ow far 'ave you got with it?" asked Bill kindly. The scribe, with beads of sweat standing out on his brow, and a protruding tongue whose tip followed the motions of his pencil, was writing madly. "'Dug-out,'" he quoted. "Name o' ... what did you say?" "Conky." "That ain't no good," interposed the sergeant with severity. "Don't waste yer time takin' down muck o' that kind, Collins. What was 'is other name?" "Smith, I think," said Grant, his fertile brain casting about for further corroborative detail with which to give artistic verisimilitude to his otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. "I can't be sure, though." "Well," said the sergeant in a resigned tone, "what did 'e do, any'ow?" "'E took the book," resumed the romancer. "An' 'e said 'e'd like to read it. So I lent it to 'im, an' 'e promised to let me 'ave it back next time 'e was back restin'--stop me if I go too fast, Mr. Collins--an' as it 'appened I never seed 'im again." "What 'appened to 'im?" "I dunno for certain. But I did 'ear a rumor as 'ow 'e got nabbed, poor chap." "Captured?" "Yes. The Boche come over when 'is battalion was in the line." "An' 'ow about the book?" Bill considered a moment. The general consensus of opinion throughout the country insisted on regarding the Denmore Manor affair as the work of German spies. In Bill's eyes this was an exceedingly satisfactory opinion for the country to hold. He decided to give the country a little assistance. "The book?" he repeated innocently. "I s'pose the Boche captured that, too." Both policemen fell into the trap. Their eyes met in a stare full of meaning.