“What happens if we get separated?,” I asked. “Look after yourself as best you can, but don’t call me by name. D’you know _Lilliburlero_? Well, pretend you’re Uncle Toby and whistle that when you get a chance, just to shew me where you are. If you want help, whistle _John Peel_. I’ll get to you if I can . . . Of course, we _may_ find everything as peaceful as the grave. If we do, I think I shall still take the precaution of moving Sonia and the boys to some other part of London.” “Bring them to Seymour Street,” I suggested. “I will, thankfully. If we find there’s a scrap in progress, we must arrange a retreat. There’ll be nobody on the west side of the house, because there are no windows for any one to break on the ground floor; and there’s a fairly high wall round the stable-yard. If you’ll keep _cavé_, I’ll slip in there and go up the fire-escape. I’ll give you the first line of _The Campbells Are Coming_ to know if the coast’s clear; if you’ll reply with _Over the Hills and Far Away_, I shall know I can unlock the door. From there, the way is by Smith Square, Great College Street and Dean’s Yard. The gates will be shut against us; but the police will open them. . . . Are you feeling at all nervous?” “A bit keyed-up. This damned fog . . .” “You may live to bless it. If for any reason we don’t both get through, we’ll say good-bye now. Slow down a bit; we can’t be more than fifty yards from the corner.” Though I fancied we were still half a mile away, I discovered—by the abrupt change from stucco to brick—that we had indeed reached the south side of the house. So far as I could see or hear, the neighbourhood was deserted; but a single distant thud, followed by a sharp tinkle, told me that some one on the other side of the house had broken a window and that the missile had been stopped by a shutter. I heard hurried footsteps and pulled up within an inch of colliding with a young policeman. His truncheon was drawn; and he had lost his helmet. “You gentlemen had best keep out of this,” he warned us. “What’s happening?,” I asked. “Are these the hunger-marchers?” “I reckon so. And they’re out for mischief. If you could see them, it wouldn’t be so bad . . .” He broke off as a fusillade of stones rattled against the house. A hollow ‘plump’, like the sound of a weight dropped into water, indicated another broken window; and in the moment’s silence that followed we heard another tinkle of glass. “The house will stand a good deal of that,” O’Rane murmured. “They’ve had no luck with the door?” “Two or three got in by the area window,” stated the constable. “Now they can’t get out again. There are two men waiting for them.” O’Rane broke into an unexpected laugh: “I’m afraid they’ll have a long wait. That’s the cellar; and the door’s sure to be locked. I hope they’ll find the wine to their taste.” “Is this your house, sir?,” asked the policeman. “You’d best not let them see you, then. They’re after you.”