“This isn’t Turkey,” said his friend, reprovingly.
“Oh, not the women. I’ve got one wife, and she’s enough for me. But I’d like the dresses and the diamonds. I’d sell ’em second-hand to the Jews, and riot on the proceeds. Talking of sales, come and find some burgundy cup.”
They went away from the ballroom, passing down the broad, shallow stairway, and were going to cross the hall, when a man stopped them and told them the way was closed.
“What’s the matter? Has there been an accident?”
“Well, perhaps it might be an accident, sir. ’Tisn’t for me to say.”
“Who the devil are you, anyway?”
“A member of the metropolitan police force, sir; a plain-clothes man, at your service. Stand back, sir, I say. You can’t come down here. The police are searching the lower part of the house.”
“My aunt! Has there been a burglary?”
“They are looking for Mr. Shelf,” said the policeman, shortly. “There’s a warrant out against him for embezzlement. But that needn’t affect you gentlemen and ladies up-stairs. You can go on with your dancing.”