"Yes, exactly," said Miss Fletcher. "Now, what can have become of Neville? He ought not to have left you alone upstairs. Not that I mean - because, of course, that would be absurd."
"Well, madam," said the Sergeant. "I don't know whether I'm supposed to mention it, but I fancy Mr. Fletcher has gone off to get engaged to be married."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said, a beaming smile sweeping over her face. "I feel he ought to be married, don't you?"
"Well, I'm bound to say it looks to me as though he needs someone to keep him in order," replied the Sergeant.
"You're so sensible," she told him. "But how remiss of me! Would you care for some tea? Such a dusty walk from the police station!"
He declined the offer, and succeeded bit by bit in escaping from her. He walked back to the police station in a mood of profound gloom, which was not alleviated, on his arrival there, by the sight of Constable Glass, still awaiting his pleasure. He went into a small private office, and once more spread his notes on the case before him, and cudgelled his brain over them.
Glass, following him, closed the door, and regarded him in a melancholy fashion, saying presently: "Fret not thyself because of evil-doers. They shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb."
"A fat lot of withering they'll do if I don't fret over them!" said the Sergeant crossly.
"Thou shaft grope at noonday as the blind gropeth in the darkness."
"I wish you'd shut up!" snapped the Sergeant, exasperated by the truth of this observation.