“It seems,” went on Mr. Braddock, “that she read something in a paper, written by some silly ass, which said that she ought to test your affection by pretending to flirt with some other cove. And when she did, you broke off the engagement. And the gist, if you understand me, of what I buzzed round to say is that she loves you still and was only fooling when she sent that other bloke the lock of hair.” “Ah?” said Mr. Molloy. “So it’s all right, isn’t it?” “It’s all right by me,” said Mr. Molloy, wishing--for it sounded interesting--that he knew what all this was about. “Then that’s that, what?” “You said it, brother.” Mr. Braddock paused. He seemed disappointed at a certain lack of emotion on his companion’s part. “She’s rather expecting you to dash round right away, you know--fold her in your arms, and all that.” This was a complication which Soapy had not foreseen. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ve a lot of work to do around this house and I don’t quite see how I can get away. Say, listen, brother, you tell her I’ll be round later on in the evening.” “All right. I’m glad everything’s satisfactory. She’s a nice girl really.” “None better,” said Mr. Molloy generously. “I still think she threw a stone at my top hat that day, but dash it,” said Mr. Braddock warmly, “let the dead past bury its dead, what?” “Couldn’t do a wiser thing,” said Mr. Molloy. * * * * * He closed the door; and having breathed a little stertorously, mounted the stairs. “Who was it?” called Dolly from the first landing. “Some nut babbling about a girl.” “Oh? Well, I’m having a hunt round in the best bedroom. You go on looking in the drawing-room.” Soapy turned his steps towards the drawing-room, but he did not reach it. For as he was preparing to cross the threshold, the front doorbell rang. It seemed to Soapy that he was being called upon to endure more than man was ever intended to bear. That, at least, was his view as he dragged his reluctant feet to the door. It was only when he opened it that he realised that he had underestimated the malevolence of fate. Standing on the top step was a policeman. “Hell!” cried Soapy. And while we blame him for the intemperate ejaculation, we must in fairness admit that the situation seemed to call for some such remark. He stood goggling, a chill like the stroke of an icy finger running down his spine. “’Evening, sir,” said the policeman. “Mr. Shotter?” Soapy’s breath returned. “That’s me,” he said huskily. This thing, coming so soon after his unrehearsed impersonation of Hash Todhunter, made him feel the sort of dizzy feeling which a small-part actor must experience who has to open a play as Jervis, a footman, and then rush up to his dressing room, make a complete change and return five minutes later as Lord George Spelvin, one of Lady Hemmingway’s guests at The Towers. The policeman fumbled in the recesses of his costume. “Noo resident, sir, I think?” “Yes.”