“Lillie Road, Fulham. We missed the last train from Hampstead, and we’re walking home. I never heard of any rule against sitting on one’s own luggage in the middle of the night. I think you’d better take us to the police station. We must rest somewhere.”
The policeman looked puzzled.
“What did you want to miss your train for?” he asked.
“We didn’t want to miss it,” Sylvia gently explained. “We were very angry when we missed it. Come on, Arthur, I don’t feel tired any longer.”
She got up and started off down Haverstock Hill, followed by Arthur.
“I’m sorry you can’t recommend any proper loitering-places on the road,” said Sylvia, turning round, “because we shall probably have to loiter about thirty-six times before we get to Lillie Road. Good night. If we meet any burglars we’ll give them your love and say there’s a nice policeman living on Haverstock Hill who’d like a chat.”
“Suppose he had run us in?” Arthur said, when they had left the policeman behind them.
“I wanted him to at first,” Sylvia replied. “But afterward I thought it might be awkward on account of Monkley’s cash-box. I wish we could open it now and see how much there is inside, but perhaps it would look funny at this time of night.”
They had nearly reached the bottom of Haverstock Hill, and there were signs of life in the squalid streets they were approaching.
“I don’t think we ought to hang about here,” Arthur said. “These are slums. We ought to be careful; I think we ought to have waited till the morning.”