It was a superfluous caution. Both constables looked ready to creep through an alderman’s thumb ring without making a sound.
Mame turned left. Her escort followed. The ground was admirably chosen. Immediately in front was a small newspaper kiosk, now padlocked for the night; and just beyond was that work of art, in all its naïveté, which had lately administered a shock to Mame’s moral nature.
Her forefinger drew a bead on the guilty object. “You better take that bo and put him in the pen.”
The boobs did not muster half a smile between them.
“Don’t be silly!” Z 9 spoke severely. “Don’t ye knaw that’s the Ache-iles Statcher?”
“Can that!” Mame looked from one dour face to the other; her lip took its most expressive curl. “Tell King George from me I am surprised. Ache-iles Statcher! I’ll write straight home to our Purity League.”
XV
THE next morning, when Mame drew up her blind, there was abundant promise of royal weather. The great day was ushered in by one of those light mists which mask a sky of flawless blue. In London, England, this phenomenon is rarely seen before noon. But when it does appear the whole of that world which lies between the White Stone Pond at Hampstead and Sydenham Hill, with its weird crown, the Crystal Palace, may be said to raise a pæan.
This morning as Mame dealt faithfully with her matutinal kipper and coffee and marmalade, she felt inclined to raise a pæan also. She had slept well in spite of a growing pressure of deep anxieties. Never had she felt more full of zip. To-day was to offer the chance of her life.
The firmness of the barometer and the optimism of the Daily Mail so fully confirmed the prospect from her bedroom window, that a second consecutive day of fine weather was almost a certainty. She would be able to do the function of the afternoon under the best possible conditions.