"Traffic Officer Phipps arrived from Boonton a little while ago," said Markham, by way of introduction. "Cleaver is expected at any moment now. He has an appointment here at half past five."
Vance drew up a chair.
"I do hope he's a punctual beggar."
"So do I," returned Markham viciously. "I'm looking forward to your felo-de-se."
"'Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,'" murmured Vance.
Less than ten minutes later Cleaver entered the rotunda from the street, paused at the desk, and sauntered into the lounge-room. There was no escaping the observation point Markham had chosen; and as he walked by us he paused and exchanged greetings. Markham detained him a moment with a few casual questions; and then Cleaver passed on.
"That the man you ticketed, officer?" asked Markham, turning to Phipps.
Phipps was scowling perplexedly.
"It looks something like him, sir; there's a kind of resemblance. But it ain't him." He shook his head. "No, sir; it ain't him. The fellow I hung a summons on was stouter than this gent, and wasn't as tall."
"You're positive?"
"Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me, and then he tried to slip me a fiver to forget it. I had my headlight on him full."
Phipps was dismissed with a substantial pourboire.
"Væ misero mihi!" sighed Vance. "My worthless existence is to be prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it. . . . I say, Markham, what does Pop Cleaver's brother look like?"
