"A police station," interrupted a cold, judicial voice, and the good Lord Mayor turned to find what the Writer, although fully occupied with the mariner, had seen approaching with consternation and alarm, the same policeman who had spoken to them before, followed by a small crowd of late night loafers, who were already starting to exchange remarks and jeer at the somewhat unusual scene. "Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and most judicial tones. The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen, whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer. "This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said the constable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely and attracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address," and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, bound in an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil and prepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?" "Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card, which he was unable to find. The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribe me," said the constable loftily. "I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor. "Well, what's your name, then?" "Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor. "Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?" "Simon Gold." "What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law. "Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor. "What address?" "The Mansion House." "Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constable sternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you're charged afore the magistrate." The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the bare mention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing to me?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayor of London." This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gathering crowd. The constable smiled a maddening smile. "A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keeping the crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened his Home to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sort of Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until I find out which Home it is." Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities to the Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently for a return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate the sort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstances will never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned the fortunes of war for the time being.