“I see yer, Mr. Piece o' Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn't 'ide from a man as sees double. Come h'out o' that there shadder. Come h'out inter the blessed light. 'No shadders yonder, no temptations there,' as they sing in the H'Army o' Salwashun.” When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, yer ain't got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer 'ang-dawg h'air. Yer wanted by the cops, I'll bet a tanner. It's Christmas h'Eve, blokey, so I won't be 'ard on yer; but yer've got ter pay fer ridin' in me keb. Every bloke 'as, or else I whacks 'im on the snout.” “Shish! Wot's the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred. “Wot's s'matter! I'll let yer know wot's s'matter if yer don't pay me my fare. H'I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin' ter King's Cross, yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped h'out.” “You're drunk, me man. H'I'm lookin' fer the very chap yer blatherin' about. Where did 'e jump h'out?” The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone on him. “Kum up, Cat's Meat. I see nar; 'e ain't the feller.” Cat's Meat came up one weary step and the wheels protested. “No, yer don't.” The detective caught hold of the reins. “Where'd this chap jump h'out?” “'Ands h'orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip raised as if about to bring it down. “'Ands h'orf, I sye. Leave me prancin' steed to 'is own dewices, le'go o' me gallopin' charger.” “Where'd this chap jump out? If yer don't tell me, I'll arrest you instead.” “Awright, yer Royal 'Ighness! Don't lose yer 'air. Why didn't yer sye yer was a cop at fust. H'I'm lookin' fer 'im as much as you are. I want 'im wery bad. You and me's friends.” “Friends! I choose me own friends. I'm a respeckable man, I am. Tell me quickly, where'd 'e jump out?” Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h'all the fiery blokes I h'ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. 'E h'excused hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I 'ears the door o' me keb a-bangin'. I looks round and, lo, 'e'd wanished in the crards.” The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, “Me and Cat's Meat'll miss yer--so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, “Yer kin forget the smallspecks, young 'un. Yer----” But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway under the sign _To Let_. “Uncle. Uncle. He's gone. Hurry.” He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.”