“‘Thank you,’ said I, with a stiff bow as I left him. On the way home, however, I thought there might be something in it, so I did go down to Scotland Yard next day, where I was received with as much civility as if I had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of umbrellas as an egg’s full of meat—almost.
“‘You’d know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,’ said the polite constable who escorted me.
“‘Know it, sir!’ said I, ‘yes, I should think I would. Seven and sixpence it cost me—new, and I’ve only had it a week—brown silk with a plain handle—why, there it is!’ And there it was sure enough, and he gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book, which I did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so nervous. Now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there? They say the days of miracles are over, but I don’t think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one.”
“The days of miracles are indeed over, ma’am,” said the black sheep, “but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. When I inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising.”
Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yard—thus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted.
They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door.
“There he is at last,” exclaimed every one.
“It is his knock, certainly,” said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look, “but rather peculiar—not so firm as usual—there it is again! Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life. You’d better open the door, dear,” she said, turning to the eldest Twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, “Mary seems to have fallen asleep.”
Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master’s step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily.
The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might be that to some minds—certainly to that of the black sheep—visions of violated blue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did not occur to Mrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her husband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her confidence in her Sam was unbounded.