"That's what I say. Life's short. Only tempery." "Temporarily, Pond, temporarily," said Constable Applebee, in correction. "You _must_ have made a mess of it at school. My missis'd go wild with delight if she had a house like that. She's as fond of flowers as bees of honey." "So's mine," said Constable Pond, standing up for his own like a man. "They all are. And if I had my wish I'd never leave the house in the morning without one in my buttonhole. It mellers a man, Pond, that's what it does, it mellers him, and whether you're rough or whether you're smooth it shows you've got a good heart. I never saw Samuel Boyd with a flower in _his_ buttonhole, and if I lived to a hundred I never should. And I never had a civil word from him." "Nor anything in the way of a tip, I'll bet," remarked Constable Pond. "You'd win it. It was a different pair of shoes with his son, Mr. Reginald. There he was, as handsome and free a young chap as you'd set eyes on in a day's march, with a flower in his coat and a smile or a cheery word to brighten you up. 'A wild night, constable,' he'd say, 'have a cigar?' And he'd slip one in my hand, and sometimes the price of a pint. It's nigh upon two years since I set eyes on him--wus luck!" These reminiscences came to a sudden stop. Constable Applebee clutched his comrade's arm, and whispered hoarsely, "Look there! The shadder!" A figure was creeping along the wall, as though in the endeavour to escape observation. They darted forward, and Constable Applebee laid his hand upon it, crying, "Now, then, give an account of yourself!" It was not a shadow, for shadows have no substance. It was not a shadow, for shadows have no voice. The sound of a sob escaped from the figure. Constable Applebee's grasp was nerveless rather than vigorous, and a less powerful effort than it made would have enabled it to escape. It was gone! Through Deadman's Court! "Quick, Pond, quick!" cried Constable Applebee. In a state of confusion they scrambled out of Catchpole Square, and came into violent collision. Ruefully rubbing their heads they looked about them, and saw nothing but the thick white fog. "Vanished!" exclaimed Constable Applebee. The collision had knocked Constable Pond's helmet off. Stooping to recover it he saw something white beneath it--a lady's handkerchief, trimmed with lace. With a sly glance at Constable Applebee he put it into his pocket. "It'll do for the missis," he thought. "She's fond of a bit of lace." CHAPTER VII. IN BISHOP STREET POLICE STATION.