Said the Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, as she rose to her feet— "I must confess, Doctor, that your bitterness surprises me. I can’t think how anybody _could_ feel angry with the poor dear things. For my part," she added, arranging her furs, "I love them. They are so unfortunate!" *XXXIX* *ON A DEAD POLICEMAN* A small blue document reached the doctor recently. I don’t remember exactly what words it contained; but there were references to God and the King and certain commands and threats thereto pertaining. And late that same night the doctor, looking wistfully upon a large bottle of claret, uttered these words— "That’s a deuced good wine, that is, and I’m dog-tired, damme, and it’s a dog’s night, dammit. But I’ve got to hustle out into the thick of it, and do two ’midders’ and a damnable post-mortem. You’d better come along." I went along—not exactly because I wanted to, but because my better nature told me that I could drink the doctor’s claret with more decency when claret-time came round if I had first earned my share. "But," said I to the doctor, "I will thank you to take notice that I have no intention whatever of watching you perform post-mortems." "I don’t perform post-mortems," replied my host. "This is one of the little matters which we ’arrange.’" Knowing that this mysterious statement was one which time itself would explain, I did not ask any questions, but put on my boots instead, and we walked out into the murk and slosh, and the doctor went into two pig-styes and ushered in two lives, and I stood in two doorways and caught two colds. And then we pursued the darkling ways until they ended in a red brick mansion with art-metal fittings, one of which we pulled with such effect that dogs began to bark at every hand, and a window was violently opened, and a heavy voice, high up, said, "All _right_!" very gruffly. "That is George," remarked the doctor cheerfully. "George will have to slip his trousers on and come downstairs and be useful." "George," I ventured to remark, "inhabits a very fine house." "Yes," replied the doctor, "he occupies a pleasant flat. So well placed. He is within a stone’s throw of his own mortuary, as I daresay you have observed." "Then George——" I began. "Is the official guardian of our English dead. His technical skill is profound. He was a porter at St. Giles’s for ten years, you see. Ah! Ha! Here _is_ George."