“As a result of that unlawful act, my friend had been arrested and taken to Bow Street police station, the police being ignorant as to his identity. I myself was a stranger in the country; I had not sufficient influence to secure his release. Would these gentlemen of their charity drive to Bow Street and vouch for the respectability of my unfortunate friend?” He said all this hesitatingly, yet hurriedly; there were long pauses between each sentence. Talham was obviously ill at ease. “And who,” Tillizinni asked slowly, “might this unfortunate friend of yours be?” Talham looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “If by any chance,” he said, “I have overstepped----” “Not me!” cried the detective in horror. “You didn’t say it was me?” Talham nodded silently. “I will only say this in extenuation,” he said with that seriousness which made all his actions so real and plausible: “that I took particular care to impress upon them that you were perfectly sober.” Tillizinni fell back in the chair helplessly, with silent laughter. “Well?” he asked at last. “Having resigned myself to the loss of what little character I possessed, I should like to know what these two young people did?” “I must confess,” said Talham, “that they were very decent. They went at once, took a taxi-cab, and drove straight away to the police station. Not finding you there, and ascertaining by telephone that you were not at Adelphi Terrace, they came back. In the meantime I had thrown myself upon the mercy of Yvonne.” “Did you call her Yvonne?” Tillizinni asked. “I called her Yvonne,” said Talham gravely, “because that is her name. I put before her as much of my prospects as I deemed it expedient to reveal. I gave her a brief resumé of my views of love and matrimony and the duty which we owe to the future. I told her in the terms which I have discovered are usual”--(It was afterwards discovered that Talham had sent out a comprehensive commission to the nearest bookstall for all the latest novels in which love dominated)--“that I loved her, and would endeavour by a life-long service, by a devotion which should be unique in the history of the world, to make her life an increasing joy and pleasure.” He was walking up and down all the time he spoke. He stopped in front of the window and stared out. Thunder clouds were banking up over South London, and on the murky horizon there was the flicker of lightning. “That is as it should be,” he said. Talham was approving of the elements; it was not the first time he had suggested that the incidence of natural phenomena were directed by an all-wise Providence to coincide with his moods. “She could not agree,” he said. “She was startled, I thought at first that she was angry; but possibly I am doing her an injustice.” “What of the young men?” “They returned as I was going,” said Talham. He swung round on Tillizinni.