"Mullett," said Hamilton Beamish, "you will not, in my presence and while I have my strength, describe any of God's creatures as cuddly. Where you picked it up, I cannot say, but you have the most abhorrent vocabulary I have ever encountered.... What's the matter?"

The valet was looking past him with an expression of deep concern.

"Why are you making faces, Mullett?" Hamilton Beamish turned. "Ah, Garroway," he said, "there you are at last. You should have been here ten minutes ago."

A policeman had come out onto the roof.

2

The policeman touched his cap. He was a long, stringy policeman, who flowed out of his uniform at odd spots, as if Nature, setting out to make a constable, had had a good deal of material left over which it had not liked to throw away but hardly seemed able to fit neatly into the general scheme. He had large, knobby wrists of a geranium hue and just that extra four or five inches of neck which disqualify a man for high honours in a beauty competition. His eyes were mild and blue, and from certain angles he seemed all Adam's apple.

"I must apologise for being late, Mr. Beamish," he said. "I was detained at the station-house." He looked at Mullett uncertainly. "I think I have met this gentleman before?"

"No, you haven't," said Mullett quickly.

"Your face seems very familiar."

"Never seen me in your life."

"Come this way, Garroway," said Hamilton Beamish, interrupting curtly. "We cannot waste time in idle chatter." He led the officer to the edge of the roof and swept his hand round in a broad gesture. "Now, tell me. What do you see?"

The policeman's eye sought the depths.

"That's the Purple Chicken down there," he said. "One of these days that joint will get pinched."

"Garroway!"

"Sir?"

"For some little time I have been endeavouring to instruct you in the principles of pure English. My efforts seem to have been wasted."

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