"I should think I did. 'E kem 'ere just now an' obtained a good blowout on false pretencies, an'----" "Old 'ard," put in the greengrocer, "that's not quite the ticket. 'E asked you to trust 'im, but you wouldn't." The stout man gurgled. "Not me. I know 'is sort. But 'e 'ad you a fair treat, Billy." "Mebbe, an' mebbe not. Ennyhow, two bob won't break me, an' I'm sorry for the kid. Wot's 'e done, Mr. Policeman?" Mr. Judd was nettled, yet unwilling to acknowledge he was wholly wrong. "Stole a heap of diamonds. Do either of you know him?" "Never saw him afore this mornin'." "Never bin in my 'ouse before." "Then come along," and Philip was tugged onward, but not before he found courage to say: "Thank you once more, Mr. Judd. I will keep my word, never fear." "What are you thanking him for?" said the constable. "For believing in me," was the curt answer. The policeman tried to extract some meaning from the words, but failed. He privately admitted that it was an extraordinary affair. How came a boy who spoke like a gentleman and was dressed like a street Arab to be wandering about London with a pocketful of diamonds and admitted to the private office of the chief diamond merchant in Hatton Garden? He gave it up, but silently thanked the stars which connected him with an important case. At last Philip's Via Dolorosa ended in the Bridewell police station. He was paraded before the inspector in charge, a functionary who would not have exhibited any surprise had the German Emperor been brought before him charged with shoplifting. He opened a huge ledger, tried if his pen would make a hair stroke on a piece of paper, and said, laconically: "Name?" No answer from the prisoner, followed by emphatic demands from inspector and constable, the former volunteering the information that to refuse your name and address was in itself an offense against the law. Philip's _sang-froid_ was coming to his aid. The horror of his passage through the gaping mob had cauterized all other sentiments, and he now saw that if he would preserve his incognito he must adopt a ruse. "Philip Morland," he said, doggedly, when the inspector asked him his name for the last time before recording a definite refusal. "Philip Morland!" It sounded curiously familiar in his ears. His mother was a Miss Morland prior to her marriage, but he had not noticed the odd coincidence that he should have been christened after the "Sir Philip" of the packet of letters so fortunately left behind that morning. "Address?" "Park Lane." The inspector began to write before the absurdity of the reply dawned on him. He stopped. "Is your mother a caretaker there, or your father employed in a mews?" "My father and mother are dead." "Then will you kindly inform us what number in Park Lane you live at?" "I have not determined that as yet. I intend to buy a house there."