The miserable Joe took off his boots and put on a pair of carpet slippers.
“You’ve made a bad slip-up, my boy,” he remarked, as he did so.
The two women continued to croon over the wonder-child. Joe took a pipe, filled it with shag and lit it dubiously. This was a bad business. He was a great philosopher, as all policemen are, but whenever a grim eye strayed across the hearth, it was followed by a frown and a grunt of perplexity.
Joe smoked solemnly. The women prattled on. But quite suddenly, like a bolt from a clear sky, there came a very unwelcome intrusion. The street door was flung open and a young constable entered breathlessly.
Dugald Maclean was received with surprise, anger, and dismay. “Now then, my lad, what about it?” demanded Joe, with a snarl of suppressed fury.
“I’m seekin’ ‘Urban Love, a trilogy,’” proclaimed Dugald Maclean; and he spoke as if the fate of the empires hung upon his finding it.
“Seekin’ what, you durned Scotchman?” said the alarmed and disgusted Joe.
With deadly composure, Harriet rose from the side of the sleeping babe.
“Mr. Maclean, it is there,” she said, icily. And she pointed to the table where the precious manuscript reclined.
“Thank ye,” said Dugald, coolly. And he proceeded to button into his tunic “Urban Love, a trilogy.”