It occurred to Roger suddenly that the mouth could not be compared to that of Rosemary. “So—so do I,” he faltered. * * * * * The Inspector leaned back in his chair and took his cigar from his lips. “Look ’ere,” he said. “Before you asks for your summons you must ’ave your witnesses.” “That’s right,” said Constable Bloke of the Metropolitan Police. “Well, where are they?” said the Inspector, with the triumphant air of one who knows that whatever answer he receives can be ground to powder. P.C. Albert Bloke consulted his notes. “They was in the car bearin’ the number XH 2908, sir.” “Then you mus’ see them,” said the Inspector, “an’ take their statemen’s.” He restored his cigar to his mouth. “If they was as near smashed up as wot you say, they’ll be ready enough to come: an’ any way, if you don’t give ’em their choice, they’ll think they’ve got to.” “That’s right,” said P.C. Bloke. “Well, you get ’old of them this afternoon. Don’t touch the chauffeur till you’ve seen ’oo was in the car. Then ask respectful if you may see ’im. If their statemen’s is O.K., we’ll get legal assistance ’ere.” “We did ought to,” said the constable earnestly. “It’s as wicked a case of——” “No case ain’t wicked without evidence,” said the Inspector. “Don’t you forget that, sonny. An’ yours alone ain’t worth a couple o’ kicks. You must ’ave corroboration. That coopy’ll bring down counsel—you see if it don’t. An’ if you ’adn’t got no backing—why, ’e’d turn you inside out before your eyes.” He raised his own to heaven and sighed as one who trusts that his enemies’ offences against him are not forgotten. “I’ve ’ad some,” he added heavily. “Never min’. Statemen’s, summons, legal assistance and conviction. That’s the order, me boy, an’ statemen’s first.” “Very good, sir,” said P.C. Bloke. The constable was ambitious. Ever since orders had come through that the reckless driving of motor vehicles was to be actively discouraged, P.C. Albert Bloke had been awaiting his chance. This, until one that morning, an inscrutable Fortune had obstinately withheld. Then all of a sudden she had smiled—dazzlingly. At dangerous cross-roads a coupé, proceeding at an unlawful speed, had swerved right across the roadway, almost collided with a limousine, very nearly knocked him down, passed a refuge on the wrong side and taken no notice at all of his orders to stop. (Such disregard was hardly surprising, for by the time the orders were given the car was out of earshot: but P.C. Bloke had decided that the ends of justice should not be defeated like that, and that if the coupé’s misconduct had cramped his style that was its own funeral.) More. The coupé’s tail-light was luminous, its number-plate clean, and P.C. Bloke had his note-book in his hand. As though to crown his endeavours, the limousine, plainly indignant, had dallied just long enough to enable him to add her number to that of the offending car.