They entered.
Under his armpit the larger of the two—a sergeant—bore a book which Bill at once recognized. It was the old lady's copy of the Arabian Nights—and the "strong clew" of the newspapers. Bill prepared to lie as he had never lied before.
The smaller policeman—he could not have weighed more than fourteen stone—produced an indelible pencil and an official notebook. He laid the latter on the table and moistened the former preparatory to beginning his clerical labors, receiving thereby a purple stain on the lip.
"Private William Grant?" asked the sergeant.
"That's me."
"5th Middlesex Fusiliers?"
"That's right," said Bill. He was relieved at being able to start by telling the truth. It laid a firm foundation for the lies he would have to construct later on.
"Regimental Number 2312?"
"Correct," said Bill. "What might you want o' me?"
"I just want to ask you a question or two." The scribe at the table gave his pencil another lick, increasing the stain on his lip.