‘Hello: what are you doin’ here?’ said a voice in the doorway. Then the American espied the broken desk, and a moment later the Biologist found himself clutched by the collar, trying helplessly to protect his head from a flailing fist, while Prosser’s shadow shot low and horizontal through the doorway.
‘The Memoirs! the Memoirs!’ yelled the Biologist. ‘The d——d thief’s stolen the Memoirs! Let me go! Let me go! It’s Prosser, not me! Oh, for God’s sake, don’t hit me again!’
At the mention of Prosser the American stayed his hand, fumbled Sir Peter’s pockets, then snatched him by the collar, and ran down the stairs, dragging him after him like a live thing in a sack. But they were too slow for Prosser. As they came out into Park Lane shouting ‘Stop thief! stop thief!’ there was the fat policeman saluting and grinning delightedly.
‘He’s got clean away this time, sir.’
‘Heavens alive! Why didn’t you stop him?’
‘I knows my place, sir’—with a wink. ‘It’s only Mr. Prosser.’
‘Blow your whistle, man! Blow your whistle! He’s stolen State Papers.’
The policeman walked very slowly forward to the edge of the pavement and looked up and down the road, then turned about, smiling rather nervously.
‘Do you reely mean it, sir?’
‘Good Lord!’ said the American, and started off running madly without another word into Oxford Street; while the Biologist careered, wild and hatless, up Grosvenor Street, yelling desperately ‘Prosser, dear Prosser!’ to the scandal of Mayfair.