"Yes, we are comfortably back in prison," I said with a faint smile, "and therefore there is surely no harm in giving us back the personal trifles that the detectives took from us."
"I cannot give you your papers," he said. "There is a forged passport here, amongst other things."
"Very well, do as you like about that," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "but surely my empty pocket-book and my watch might be returned."
To this he agreed, whereupon he handed me—
(a) My pocket-book, containing five pounds hidden in the lining.
(b) My watch, and a compass, which he mistook for another timepiece.
(c) My false moustache, which had been captured on my person.
I was in an agony of anxiety about this moustache. Had the police inquired at the only two hairdressers' where such things were made, they would have found that Miss Whitaker had ordered it for me only ten days before. But now it was safely in my possession again. I had the only connecting link of evidence that might incriminate Miss Whitaker in my trouser pocket, and was tearing it to shreds as I talked to the Chief of Police.
The interview passed on a note of felicitation, until the very end. After praising the smart way his men had surrounded the house, and receiving his congratulations on our escapes, just as if the whole thing was a game, we said that there was one criticism we had to make on police methods, and that was their treatment of women.
"They are Turkish subjects," snapped the Chief of Police, suddenly showing his teeth.