“Yes, I came,” said Roger, uncrossing and recrossing his legs and mentally consigning all women and police-officers to outer darkness. “Don’t you remember when I woke you to say we were back?” “I can’t say I do,” said Virginia ruthlessly. “Never mind.” She turned to the constable. “This gentleman says he was with me.” P.C. Bloke addressed himself to Roger. “D’you remember anythin’ ’appenin,’ sir, during your drive?” With goggling eyes, Roger assured the ceiling that he could recall nothing. “It was a most—most uneventful progress,” he added thickly. A deeper tinge of colour stole into Virginia’s cheeks. P.C. Bloke frowned and fingered his chin. “Nothing at all, sir?” he ventured. Not daring to trust his voice, Captain Chase shook his head. Rosemary cleared her throat. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “—it’s nothing to do with me—but perhaps if the constable could give you some sort of idea of what he wants to know . . .” “I agree,” said Derry heartily, taking out cigarettes. “What are you after, Constable? Somebody been knocked down?” “We never knocked anybody down,” said Virginia. “That I’ll swear.” “Oh no, madam,” said P.C. Bloke. “I’m not suggestin’ it. It’s rather the other way. But as neither you nor the gentleman don’t recall no inciden’, I’m afraid p’r’aps I’m wastin’ your time.” He turned to Derry. “Can you tell me where I shall find your chauffeur, sir?” For the second time reference to the chauffeur as a possible fount of information produced an immediate effect. “Ha-half a moment,” said Roger desperately. “I mean, as my wife was saying, can’t you give us any idea of what you’re getting at?” He laughed inanely. “You see, you’ve—you’ve aroused our curiosity, and I—we feel it’s only fair to put us wise.” He stopped there to wipe the sweat from his brow. The constable glanced about him before replying. Virginia, scarlet in the face, was smoking furiously and regarding an exquisite Herring with narrowed eyes. Handkerchief to lips, Rosemary, whose sense of humour her husband’s agonized travail had rendered mutinous, fought to suppress her mirth. With the idiotic grin of one who is seeking to maintain his gravity by entering the cataleptic state, Major Peruke gazed upon a bowl of sweet-peas. Wondering if this deportment was that generally obtaining in Curzon Street, P.C. Albert Bloke referred to his notes—less for the purpose of refreshing his memory than with some hazy idea of stabilizing his wits, the formation of which was beginning to get ragged. Almost unconsciously he began to read aloud his report.