“I don’t know the street,” I said, “nor can I accept your assumption that such a degenerate can be called a gentleman. But I understand that his home is in Greenwich.”
“Num shixteen,” said Mr. Maidstone.
The constable bent over him, and raised him to his feet.
“Now, come along,” he said. “Pull yourself together.”
Mr. Maidstone swayed for a moment and then saluted us.
“Happit meetu,” he said. “Num shixteen.”
“Sixteen what?” said the constable.
“Manshtroad,” said Mr. Maidstone. “Shixteen Manshtroad, Grinsh.”
Then he toppled forward into the constable’s arms, but recovered himself and smiled at us affectionately.
The constable turned to me.