“I can’t believe it.” Leslie stared at the inspector. “His own mother charged him? How monstrous!” Mr. Coldwell had reached an age where it was almost impossible to surprise him. “Queer, isn’t it? But, Lord bless you, mothers do rum things! I’ve known cases--but you’ve heard about ’em, too, Leslie. Peter went down to Wimbledon to raise the devil for some reason or other. It appears his mother had heard the fuss he was making at the door and telephoned for the police before he broke in. It might have been bad for him if he were a convict on license, but fortunately he’s time-expired, and he has only to say that it was a family quarrel to get bound over. I don’t think he will be called upon for defense, anyway.” Leslie Maughan nibbled at the end of her glove, a devastating habit of hers in moments of perturbation. “I really can’t believe it, though of course it must have happened. What was his mother doing down there? And why on earth did Peter do such a mad thing?” Coldwell smiled. “Go down and ask him,” he said. “I’ll give you a note to the inspector, and you might have a few minutes’ talk with him before he appears in court. It is very unlikely that they will remand him to Brixton. If the princess has got horse sense she will get him acquitted. Mrs. Dawlish is pretty sick and sorry that she allowed herself to charge him. I can tell you that because, as soon as I heard about the case, I phoned up the station and the sergeant in charge told me that Mrs. Dawlish came to the police station at seven o’clock this morning to see if she could get her name taken out of the record. She’d allowed her spite to lead her astray, and she knows that when it comes into court, the story of a mother charging her son is going to make a pretty big newspaper sensation. That is why I think that the charge may be withdrawn.” When Leslie reached the police station she found that Peter had been transferred to the cells adjoining the court, and her own card was sufficient to obtain an interview. He met her with a rueful smile. “You see me again in my natural environment,” he said cheerfully. “Why did you go to Bellini’s?” “I wanted to learn something,” he said, and he would not explain any more. She told him of the inspector’s prophecy, but he seemed careless as to whether the charge would be supported. “It was certainly a facer,” he said. “I didn’t expect my mother to take that line. I suppose until then I had not realized how bitterly she hated me. They may go on with the charge, knowing that in any circumstances I should not tell what brought me to Wimbledon.” She did not press him for any further particulars. The interview took place in the passage adjoining the court; policemen and prisoners were passing every few seconds, and the conditions were not favourable to confidences. She told him of her own alarming experience, and when she had finished he whistled.