"Perhaps you don't understand," admitted Mrs. Hallam sweetly. "Of course—I see—it's perfectly natural. The house has been shut up for some time and—"
"Thank you, ma'am; that's just it. There was something wrong going on early in the evening, and I was told to keep an eye on the premises. It's duty, ma'am; I've got my report to make."
"The house," said Mrs. Hallam, with the long-suffering patience of one elucidating a perfectly plain proposition to a being of a lower order of intelligence, "is the property of my son, Arthur Frederick Burgoyne Hallam, of Cornwall. This is—"
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I was told Colonel George Burgoyne, of Cornwall—"
"Colonel Burgoyne died some time ago. My son is his heir. This is my son. He came to the house this evening to get some property he desired, and—it seems—tripped on the stairs and fell unconscious. I became worried about him and drove over, accompanied by my friend, Mr. Kirkwood."
The policeman looked his troubled state of mind, and wagged a doubtful head over the case. There was his duty, and there was, opposed to it, the fact that all three were garbed in the livery of the well-to-do.
At length, turning to the driver, he demanded, received, and noted in his memorandum-book, the license number of the equipage.
"It's a very unusual case, ma'am," he apologized; "I hopes you won't 'old it against me. I'm only trying to do my duty—"
"And safeguard our property. You are perfectly justified, officer."
"Thank you, ma'am. And would you mind giving me your cards, please, all of you?"