“Hand them to me,” said the bald-headed man peremptorily, “and go over him properly.” The boy was taken by two policemen into a room close by. Immediately they began to pull off his clothes. To his extreme horror, bewilderment and shame they stripped him stark naked. They lifted up his heels and passed their fingers between his toes; they held up his arms and pressed their hands into his armpits; they ran their fingers through his hair, and placed them in his mouth. “No purse,” they said. They left the boy naked, with all his clothes on the floor. As the door closed behind them he fell senseless on the cold stone. A long and vague period followed, which was veiled from his consciousness by a kind of semi-darkness. During that period he seemed to find himself again in the presence of the bald-headed man, who still sat at his desk and glared at him over the rims of his gold eye-glasses. The boy had only the haziest knowledge of that which took place; and subsequently was never able to satisfy himself as to whether or not he was again wearing clothes at this interview. At least he had no recollection of having put them on again or of any one else having done so. The beautiful woman street-person in the gay clothes, and the little girl with golden curls, had gone away. The large and gloomy room smelt very oppressive, and seemed full of police constables. “Have you a father?” said the bald-headed man. Although all was darkness and confusion about the boy the harsh voice seemed to cause his heart to stop beating. The boy made some inaudible reply, which finally was taken for an answer in the affirmative. “A mother?” A further inaudible reply was taken to be a negative. “What is the name of your father?” “I--I--I d-don’t think I know, sir,” stammered the boy. “Now then, none o’ that, or it will be ’otted up for you.” The voice of the bald-headed man caused the boy’s teeth to chatter. “What is your father?” The boy lifted up his strange eyes in dumb bewilderment. “I think he’s a little bit touched, sir,” said a very melancholy-looking police constable, tapping his head with his forefinger. “You think nothing, Gravener,” said the bald-headed man sternly. “What right have you to think? You’ve been in the Force long enough to know that. What does your father do?” he said to the boy. After a moment a flash of intelligence seemed to fuse the deadly pallor of the boy’s face. “H-he keeps a lot of books,” he said, “a lot of books written by the ancient authors.” “Vendor of old books, eh? Where does he live?” For a moment the dark curtain of incomprehension again descended upon the boy; but quite suddenly it lifted and his mind was illumined with a ray of meaning. “My father lives in the street of the second among the English authors,” he said. “Now then, now then,” said the bald-headed man. “If you talk in that way I’ll promise you it will be ’otted up for you.”