The policemen transferred their gaze from me to the dead man. Then, as if moved by a common impulse, they began to laugh. I watched them moodily, plunged in an extraordinary vein of thought. When I moved away they at once stopped me.
"No, you don't," said one. "We'll want you at the police station to give your evidence. Not," he continued with a grin, "to tell that bit of information you just gave us, about him being an angel or something."
"I didn't say he was an angel."
They laughed tolerantly. Like Mr. Clutterbuck, they thought I was mad.
"Let's hope he's an angel," said the other. "But, by his face, he looks more like the other thing. Bill, you go round for the ambulance. I'll stay with the gentleman."
The policeman moved away ponderously and vanished in the darkness.
"What was that you were saying, sir?" asked the policeman who remained with me.
"Never mind," I muttered, "you wouldn't understand."
"I'm interested in religious matters," continued the policeman in a soft voice. "You think that the Blue Disease is something out of the common?"
I am never surprised at London policemen, but I looked at this one closely before I replied.