Mr. Montague smiled in reply, a genuine smile. The policemen knew when to go upstairs and when not.
"It 's not worth twenty quid," went on Mr. Ferguson earnestly, "if you should see it. It 's not worth" (he sought in his mind for a comparison) "blarst me! it 's not worth six months," he concluded with emphasis.
Mr. Montague accompanied this speech by a continued slow shaking of the head and an inverted vague look in his little bright eyes, as though he were seeking for some memory of the thing—some glimpse of it within his wide circle of acquaintances.
"It 's not here," said Mr. Ferguson for the last time, rising, "I can see that, and I know ye, but if ye should see anything of it"
The old man's whisper was close to the policeman's ear, for he also had risen. It came reassuring and husky.
"I know which ways I lies abed!" he said. Then he winked, sharply, like a bird, and Mr. Ferguson was thoroughly content.
One last piece of ritual had to be gone through before this cog in our vast and admirable administrative system had ground through and done its work. The little old
