“Oh! I’m so glad he’s not dead,” said Diana, looking hastily up, “but this policeman was nearly killed, and I did it! He saved my life, papa.”
A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom.
“I am deeply grateful to you,” said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty—he might say, involuntarily.
“Will you come to my house?” said Sir Richard. “Here is my card. I should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and—”
“And the remains,” suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard hesitated.
“Be so good as to call a cab,” said Sir Richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey.
“Here you are, sir!” cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time.
Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.
Thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale.