She nearly lost her balance—where in the world had he come from? She certainly had not heard the slightest sound, and yet there he sat, in the corner, like a veritable jack-in-the-box, his mild blue eyes staring apologetically at her, his nervous fingers toying with the inevitable bit of string.
The waitress brought him his glass of milk and a cheesecake. He ate it in silence, while his piece of string lay idly beside him on the table. When he had finished he fumbled in his capacious pockets, and drew out the inevitable pocketbook.
Placing a small photograph before the girl, he said quietly:
“That is the back of the houses in Phillimore Terrace, which overlook Adam and Eve Mews.”
She looked at the photograph, then at him, with a kindly look of indulgent expectancy.
“You will notice that the row of back gardens have each an exit into the mews. These mews are built in the shape of a capital F. The photograph is taken looking straight down the short horizontal line, which ends, as you see, in a cul-de-sac. The bottom of the vertical line turns into Phillimore Terrace, and the end of the upper long horizontal line into High Street, Kensington. Now, on that particular night, or rather early morning, of January 15th, Constable D 21, having turned into the mews from Phillimore Terrace, stood for a moment at the angle formed by the long vertical artery of the mews and the short horizontal one which, as I observed before, looks on to the back gardens of the Terrace houses, and ends in a cul-de-sac.
“How long D 21 stood at that particular corner he could not exactly say, but he thinks it must have been three or four minutes before he noticed a suspicious-looking individual shambling along under the shadow of the garden walls. He was working his way cautiously in the direction of the cul-de-sac, and D 21, also keeping well within the shadow, went noiselessly after him.
“He had almost overtaken him—was, in fact, not more than thirty yards from him—when from out of one of the two end houses—No. 22, Phillimore Terrace, in fact—a man, in nothing but his nightshirt, rushed out excitedly, and, before D 21 had time to intervene, literally threw himself upon the suspected individual, rolling over and over with him on the hard cobblestones, and frantically shrieking, ‘Thief! Thief! Police!’
“It was some time before the constable succeeded in rescuing the tramp from the excited grip of his assailant, and several minutes before he could make himself heard.
“ ‘There! there! that’ll do!’ he managed to say at last, as he gave the man in the shirt a vigorous shove, which silenced him for the moment. ‘Leave the man alone now, you mustn’t make that noise this time o’ night, wakin’ up all the folks.’ The unfortunate tramp, who in the meanwhile had managed to get onto his feet again, made no attempt to get away; probably he thought he would stand but a poor chance. But the man in the shirt had partly recovered his power of speech, and was now blurting out jerky, half—intelligible sentences:
“ ‘I have been robbed—robbed—I—that is—my master—Mr. Knopf. The desk is open—the diamonds gone—all in my charge—and—now they are stolen! That’s the thief—I’ll swear—I heard him—not three minutes ago—rushed downstairs—the door into the garden was smashed—I ran across the garden—he was sneaking about here still—Thief! Thief! Police! Diamonds! Constable, don’t let him go—I’ll make you responsible if you let him go—’
“ ‘Now then—that’ll do!’ admonished D 21 as soon as he could get a word in, ‘stop that row, will you?’
“The man in the shirt was gradually recovering from his excitement.
“ ‘Can I give this man in charge?’ he asked.
“ ‘What for?’
“ ‘Burglary and housebreaking. I heard him, I tell you. He must have Mr. Knopf’s diamonds about him at this moment.’
“ ‘Where is Mr. Knopf?’
“ ‘Out of town,’ groaned the man in the shirt. ‘He went to Brighton last night, and left me in charge, and now this thief has been and—’
“The tramp shrugged his shoulders and suddenly, without a word, he quietly began taking off his coat and waistcoat. These he handed across to the constable. Eagerly the man in the shirt fell on them, and turned the ragged pockets inside out. From one of the windows a hilarious voice made some facetious remark, as the tramp with equal solemnity began divesting himself of his nether garments.
“ ‘Now then, stop that nonsense,’ pronounced D 21 severely, ‘what were you doing here this time o’ night, anyway?’
“ ‘The streets o’ London is free to the public, ain’t they?’ queried the tramp.
“ ‘This don’t lead nowhere, my man.’
“ ‘Then I’ve lost my way, that’s all,’ growled the man surlily, ‘and p’raps you’ll let me get along now.’
“By this time a couple of constables had appeared upon the scene. D 21 had no intention of losing sight of his friend the tramp, and the man in the shirt had again made a dash for the latter’s collar at the bare idea that he should be allowed to ‘get along.’
“I think D 21 was alive to the humour of the situation. He suggested that Robertson (the man in the nightshirt) should go in and get some clothes on, whilst he himself would wait for the inspector and the detective, whom D 15 would send round from the station immediately.
“Poor Robertson’s teeth were chattering with cold. He had a violent fit of sneezing as D 21 hurried him into the house. The latter, with another constable, remained to watch the burglared premises both back and front, and D 15 took the wretched tramp to the station with a view to sending an inspector and a detective round immediately.
“When the two latter gentlemen arrived at No. 22, Phillimore Terrace, they found poor old Robertson in bed, shivering, and still quite blue. He had got himself a hot drink, but his eyes were streaming and his voice was terribly husky. D 21 had stationed himself in the dining-room, where Robertson had pointed the desk out