“Where are you walking to, Mr. Poleeeceman?” asked Fatty politely.
“I’m going down to Mr. and Mrs. Hilton,” said Mr. Goon righteously.
“Then we part,” said Fatty. “Adieu, dear Mr. Poleeeceman.”
He went off round a corner, and Mr. Goon stared after him. He felt puzzled. but he didn’t know why. “That French boy isn’t half queer,” he thought. He would have thought him queerer still if he had seen what Fatty did round the corner!
Fatty pulled off his wig, took out his teeth, removed his queer-looking cap, and took off the rather gaudy scarf he wore. He hid them all in a bush.
Then, looking once more like Frederick Algernon Trotteville, he hastened to the house where Pip and Bets lived, and where Mr. Goon had already gone. He went in and gave the usual call for Pip, although he knew quite well he wasn’t there, but was at Larry’s.
“Oh, there you are, Frederick,” said Mrs. Hilton, looking out of the door of the sitting-room. “Come here a minute, will you? Pip is out, and so is Bets. Mr. Goon is here with a very extraordinary story. Apparently he thinks that you and the others have been guilty of most unnecessary rudeness.”
“How extraordinary!” said Fatty, and went into the sitting-room. He saw Mr. Hilton there too, and Mr. Goon sitting on a chair, his knees turned out widely, his great hands flat on them.
“Ho!” he said, when Fatty went in. “Here’s one of them what wrote that invisible letter. Now, ma’am, I’ll just show it to you, and you’ll be able to read it. Talks about my brains creaking for want of oil!”
Mr. Goon took out the sheet of paper from the envelope and laid it on the table. It was blank, because the writing had not been warmed up. Mr. Goon looked at it, and was annoyed. The lettering had been there last time he had looked at it.