He arrived in time to be a witness to a curious scene. In the centre of the charge-room and facing the sergeant's desk was a man of middle age, shabbily dressed, but bearing the indefinable air of one who had seen better days. The grey hair was carefully brushed from the familiar face and gave him that venerable appearance which pale eyes and a pair of thin straight lips (curled now in an amused smile) did their best to discount.
By his side stood his captor, a station detective, a bored and apathetic man.
"It seems," the prisoner was saying, as Stanford Beale came noiselessly into the room, "it seems that under this detestable system of police espionage, a fellow may not even take a walk in the cool of the morning."
His voice was that of an educated man, his drawling address spoke of his confidence.
"Now look here, Parson," said the station sergeant, in that friendly tone which the police adopt when dealing with their pet criminals, " you know as well as I do that under the Prevention of Crimes Act you, an old lag, are liable to be arrested if you are seen in any suspicious circumstances—you oughtn't to be wandering about the streets in the middle of the night, and if you do, why you mustn't kick because you're pinched—anything found on him, Smith?"
"No, sergeant—he was just mouching round, so I pulled him in."
"Where are you living now, Parson?"
The man with extravagant care searched his pockets.
"I have inadvertently left my card-case with my coiner's outfit," he said gravely, "but a wire addressed to the Doss House, Mine Street, Paddington, will find me—but I don't think I should try. At this moment I enjoy the protection of the law. In four days' time I shall be on the ocean—why, Mr. Beale?"
Mr. Beale smiled.
"Hullo, Parson—I thought you had sailed to-day."
"The first-class berths are all taken and I will not travel to Australia with the common herd."
He turned to the astonished sergeant.
