'So every one hasn't vanished,' he said, caught up the tray and took it in. He hid it under the pantry shelf. He didn't know who the people were who were coming and you can't be too careful. Then he went out and made himself small in the shadow of a red buttress, heard their voices coming nearer and nearer. They were all talking at once, in that quick interested way that makes you certain something unusual has happened. He could not hear exactly what they were saying, but he caught the words: 'No.' 'Of course I've asked.' 'Police.' 'Telegram.' 'Yes, of course.' 'Better make quite sure.' Then every one began speaking all at once, and you could not hear anything that anybody said. Philip was too busy keeping behind the buttress to see who they were who were talking. He was glad _something_ had happened. 'Now I shall have something to think about besides the nurse and my beautiful city that she has pulled down.' But what was it that had happened? He hoped nobody was hurt--or had done anything wrong. The word police had always made him uncomfortable ever since he had seen a boy no bigger than himself pulled along the road by a very large policeman. The boy had stolen a loaf, Philip was told. Philip could never forget that boy's face; he always thought of it in church when it said 'prisoners and captives,' and still more when it said 'desolate and oppressed.' 'I do hope it's not _that_,' he said. And slowly he got himself to leave the shelter of the red-brick buttress and to follow to the house those voices and those footsteps that had gone by him. He followed the sound of them to the kitchen. The cook was there in tears and a Windsor arm-chair. The kitchenmaid, her cap all on one side, was crying down most dirty cheeks. The coachman was there, very red in the face, and the groom, without his gaiters. The nurse was there, neat as ever she seemed at first, but Philip was delighted when a more careful inspection showed him that there was mud on her large shoes and on the bottom of her skirt, and that her dress had a large three-cornered tear in it. 'I wouldn't have had it happen for a twenty-pun note,' the coachman was saying. 'George,' said the nurse to the groom, 'you go and get a horse ready. I'll write the telegram.' 'You'd best take Peppermint,' said the coachman. 'She's the fastest.' The groom went out, saying under his breath, 'Teach your grandmother,' which Philip thought rude and unmeaning. Philip was standing unnoticed by the door. He felt that thrill--if it isn't pleasure it is more like it than anything else--which we all feel when something real has happened. But what _had_ happened. What? 'I wish I'd never come back,' said the nurse. 'Then nobody could pretend it was _my_ fault.' 'It don't matter what they pretend,' the cook stopped crying to say. 'The thing is what's happened. Oh, my goodness. I'd rather have been turned away without a character than have had this happen.'