Mr. Miller it was. Mr. Miller, chatting amiably with one of the lady neighbours on the subject of flowers and how to rear them; the lady neighbour being something of a horticulturist in her way, possessing, as she did, in her garden plot, one sooty shrub, a limp sunflower, and several dandelions. Mr. Miller had just said something to the lady neighbour which had made her laugh uproariously, when, chancing to look up, he saw the signals of the Duchess and of Bobbie. His face took a note of interrogation; they motioned to him to go away with all despatch. Mr. Bat Miller crammed his hat over his head and ran off blindly; so blindly indeed that, at the Kingsland Road end of the place, he jumped into the arms of three overcoated men led by Mr. Thorpe; escaping these, he was caught neatly by uniformed policemen who were close behind. At the same moment a similar force appeared at the Hoxton Street end of the place. Bobbie and the Duchess held each other’s hands and went downstairs. The faint sound of a hymn came from the closed door.
Three loud raps at the front door. Bobbie went along the passage and opened it. Mr. Thorpe, with the other men; out in the court a small interested crowd, the noise of windows being thrown up.
“Come about the white-washin’?” asked Bobbie, innocently.
“Take the chain off, me lad,” said Mr. Thorpe, with his foot inside.
“Right you are, sir.”
The men came into the dark passage and one of them flashed a bull’s-eye lantern around.
“Father in?” asked Mr. Thorpe.
“Well, no,” answered the boy, “he isn’t exactly in, sir.”
“Won’t be long, I daresay.”
“I wouldn’t wait, sir,” said Bobbie respectfully, “if I was you. Fact is he’s been dead some years.”