Whereon the welkin of Marlborough Street rang with a cacophonous interpretation of _Three o'Clock in the Morning_, the chronological inaccuracy of which ancient ditty they appeared to perceive, for they made of it an apologetically discordant dirge. After three more unavailing efforts to make them cease their serenade, or to inflict it on another thoroughfare, the door-keeper arrested them, and they were marched into the station still wailing the refrain of that touching ballad _Bye Bye, Blackbird_. And now a problem arose. No police station has more than seven cells, and by then all those at Marlborough Street were occupied. Appealed to for instructions, the Divisional Inspector scratched his head, for more than one prisoner cannot be placed in the same cell except during riots. The four songsters, having been roughly searched and charged, were now lined up at one end of the charge room abiding the Inspector's decision on this knotty point, and their persistent warbling was not helpful. "... When somebaaaady waits for meee (Shoogar's sweet, saow is sheee), Baaaye-baaaye, blackburrrd. Naowone used to laave 'rr understaaand meee, Naowone knows----" "SHUT UP!" bellowed the frantic Inspector, whom this ghastly vocalism was rapidly driving to the verge of insanity, and added a virulent commination. He telephoned to Vine Street, only to learn that the more aristocratic police station was already full. Unwisely, he chose to exercise his own authority without appealing to headquarters. "... Make maaye bed 'n' laaaight the laaaight, Aiyull be home late to-naaight, Blackburrrd, Baaaye-baaaye!" The lullaby howled on to an appallingly strident conclusion, and the chanticleers, without tarrying for applause, swept on to an ear-splitting prayer that they might be permitted to join their lost loves upon the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond. "If this doesn't constitute a riot, God knows what does," squealed the Inspector in anguish. "TAKE 'EM AWAY!!" The four were sent to join their fellow-choristers in the bonny, bonny cells of Marlborough Street. Even that did not end the torment of C Division, for within the next half-hour they accumulated three more psalmists and two men who had endeavoured to capture a policeman's helmet. Towards ten o'clock, a man in a small two-seater car drove down Marlborough Street, turned his car at right angles across the road, and shouted to the constable at the station entrance to stand clear, explaining that he was going to drive right in. He even tried to carry out his threat, and when they went out to him they found that he was very drunk. What was more, he was the only one of the night's captures whom the Divisional Inspector knew by sight. "You're James Mattock," he said reproachfully. "Jimmy, we thought you'd gone respectable." Mattock shook his head, staggering a little. There was a fatuous grin on his face.