"Nothing," he replied.
"Then you needn't stay," I said suggestively, and went on signing. He didn't go. He smiled again and swallowed. I signed a dozen sheets or more and then looked up, and there he was, still smiling.
"Well," I asked, "what is the matter? Out with it."
"We are all poor men," he said.
"Who are?" I asked carelessly.
"All we police," he said. "I gave a whole rupee, but the others could give but a penny or twopence each because they are only constables. We could not afford more. We are poor men, your Honour."
I stopped my signing. "Sergeant," I said, "come here. I don't know what you're talking about. What is the matter?"
"There is a little girl," he answered, coming up to the table. "That's the difficulty."
I held my head between my hands. I had no idea of what he could be talking about. The syncopated method of beginning a conversation which Burmese often use made my head ache. I stared, he stared. At last I said:
"Sergeant, I'm going home," and rose. Then it all came out.