“Be you the landlady?” asked the policeman.
“Yes, I am!” quoth the night-cap in a snappy, snarly way. “What do you want?” This with added sourness.
“This party says his name is Poinsette and that he rooms here,” replied the officer.
“No such thing!” retorted the night-cap. “No such man rooms here. Don't even know the name!”
Then the window came down with a grievous bang. It was as if it descended on Poinsette's heart.
“You're a crook!” said the policeman, “and now you come with me.”
Poinsette essayed to explain that the night-cap was not his landlady; that he had made a mistake in the house. The policeman laughed in hoarse scorn at this.
“D'ye think I'm goin' all along the row, yankin' door-bells out by the roots on such a stiff as you're givin' me?”
That was the reply of the policeman to Poinsette's pleadings to try next door.
Poinsette was led sadly off, with the grip of the law on his collar. At the station he was searched and booked and bolted in. On the hard plank, which made the sole furnishings of his narrow cell, Poinsette threw himself down; not to sleep, but to give himself to bitter consideration of his fate.