Mrs. R. Haslam. (Brushing all this aside.) I may be dull, Mr.——
Frampington. Frampington.
Mrs. R. Haslam. But I don't yet understand why you've come here.
Flora. Mr. Frampington was going to explain how it was the police-station was so inhospitable.
Frampington. The Inspector wouldn't believe my story. He thought I was a practical joker.
Flora. And don't you think you are?
Frampington. (Judicially.) Depends how one looks at it. I feel sure I should have been more convincing if I hadn't changed my clothes. But the Bishop insisted on me doing that, and so I put on the only suit I had. And then I found I'd chosen a bad night. Owing to these vivisection riots, they were doing a big business in medical students at Vine Street. In fact, my suspicion is that all their cells were engaged. And there's another thing—I don't think I ought to have gone to Vine Street. Vine Street specialises in what you may call West End cases—pocket-picking, confidence tricks, murder, aristocratic inebriety, and so on. It runs in a groove. But then Vine Street was the only police-station that I was personally acquainted with—a youthful souvenir of Boatrace night—and so I went there. It was a mistake.
Mrs. R. Haslam. I'm afraid you didn't insist.
Frampington. Yes. I did. I insisted so much that at last the Inspector got cross and said that if I didn't clear he should lock me up.
Mrs. R. Haslam. And wasn't that enough for you, my man?