“Yes, but you ain’t the defence, sir.”
“Not yet,” was the pregnant reply.
The luckless officer recoiled against the wall.
“ ‘Not yet’?” he said hoarsely. “‘Not yet’? Why, then, you . . .”
“We were the coupé,” said Derry. He nodded at Mrs. Chase. “That lady and I.”
“You . . . you was—oh, Gawd, what a perishin’ ’ave,” said P.C. Bloke.
The serio-comic note which the apostrophe sounded was irresistible: the realization that it was also sounding the retreat was overwhelming: the four dissolved in peals of hysterical laughter.
With tears running down his cheeks, Derry sloshed whisky and soda into a glass and pressed the beverage into the constable’s hand.
“You’ve earned it,” he sobbed. “Earned it better than you know. ‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth’ a spot without a stain—and a bit over. We’ll adjust the balance in a minute. What are you going to tell the Commissioner?”
Albert Bloke put his empty hand to his head.