As soon as sheer astonishment and the cares of motherhood would permit, a number of searching questions were put to Constable Kelly.
“How did you come by it, Joe?” was question the first.
Before committing himself in any way, Joe scratched a fair Saxon poll like a very wise policeman, indeed. It was as if he had said, “Joseph Kelly, my friend, anything you say now will be used in evidence against you.”
At last, cocking at Harriet a cautious eye, he replied impressively, “I’ll tell you.” But it was not until Eliza had imperiously repeated the question that he came to the point of so doing.
So accustomed was Joseph Kelly to the giving of evidence that unconsciously he assumed the air of one upon his oath.
“I was perceding” said he, “about twenty-past four through Grosvenor Square, on my way to Victoria, when I see through the fog this bloomin’ contraption on a doorstep.”
“What was the number?” Eliza asked.
“I was so flabbergasted, I forgot to look.”
“Well, really, Joe!”
“When I saw what was in the basket, I was so took, as you might say, that it was not until I was at the end of the street that I thought of looking for the number. And then it was too late to swear to the house.”