He took up the lamp and began slowly to move when there came a peremptory ring at the front-door bell. The lamp in his hand rattled, and he went to open the door. He saw a policeman standing on the door-step. He was so startled and alarmed that he could find nothing to say. "Anything wrong, constable?" asked Serge. "The Reverend Mr. Folyat?" "My name," answered Francis. "Anything wrong?" "We've got a gentleman at the station; gave us your name for bail, Mr. Folyat." "A gentleman?" "Yessir. Drunk and obscene language." "Have a drink, constable?" said Serge. "Well, sir . . ." They went into the study. The constable was refreshed, and told how an old man in a rusty green coat and a battered silk hat had been brought into the station and for many hours had refused to give his name or any information about himself. He was not known to the police. The arrest took place early in the afternoon. At eleven o'clock he had asked for bail, referred the police to Mr. Folyat and given his name, but no address. His name was James Lawrie. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Francis. "Mr. Lawrie! Dear me! Poor gentleman. . . . Will you come with me, Serge?" They went out as quietly as they could. With his hand on the knob of the front door Serge heard his mother calling from the landing: "Serge! Francis! Frank!" He closed the door and ran after his father and the constable, who were already some way up the street. At the police-station they were kept for some time in the waiting-room until, escorted by a brawny officer, old Lawrie appeared before them. He was clearly only just roused from sleep. He looked extremely disreputable, with his hat hanging over one eye and his bushy white hair sticking out under the hat. His white beard was filthy with mud and blood. He stood blinking at the light and peering at Francis. After a moment or two he recognised him, removed his hat, and stood with bowed head. "This is Mr. Folyat," said the inspector. "Aye." "Mr. Folyat will go bail for you. You must give your address, age, and occupation." Old Lawrie mumbled so inarticulately that Francis was appealed to. He gave the address, age, and occupation of Bennett's father. After a formality or two they were shown out politely, and old Lawrie was bidden to attend in court the next morning. He said: "Aye." Out in the street he shook himself like a wet dog. Francis said kindly: "I am sorry indeed to meet you again in such unfortunate circumstances, Mr. Lawrie." "Blethers!" said the old man. "One prison is like unto another. Man. I've made a philosophical discovery of the first magnitude. The dirty soul of man was written on the walls of my cell. . . . When last we met--as they say in the plays--you were kind enough to listen to some verses of mine. What d'ye think of this?" He took a deep breath, and blew out his chest.