"What about?"
The spokesman gave a doubtful glance at Mrs. Grant, who was still quivering in the background.
"If the lady wouldn't mind ..." he began politely.
"'Op it, mother!" said Bill. "You go an' get on with yer washin'."
"Oh, indeed! I'm not to know what goes on in me own 'ouse, ain't I? Very well then, you can ask yer questions in the street, or the back yard."
"P'raps it don't matter," said the sergeant uneasily. "I only want to ask a question or two about this book."
"Right-o," said Bill. "Carry on!"
Should he deny all knowledge of the book? If he did, could he outface the policemen and convince them? How much did the police know, and how had they managed to connect him with the book at all? He could not answer any of these questions, and his only course was to wait till his adversary should give him a lead. He did not have to wait long.
"This book," said the sergeant, "was sent out to you at the front by Miss So-fire Browne at a recent date."
"It was," admitted Bill. So that was how they had traced him, was it—by the name and address of Miss Browne's brother written on the fly-leaf? And seeing that they knew so much, it was well for him that he had not after all denied his connection with the book.