"Humph," said Mrs. Rudd the post-mistress, "lot o' good the police force is, I don't think, ain't they?"

The police force shuffled its feet and looked uncomfortable.

"Well, now, auntie," it began mildly, "I don't see 'ow...."

"None o' yer 'Well, now auntie' for me, please. Are you policeman in this 'ere village or are you not?—answer me that."

"O' course I am."

"Well then, 'ere's a lot o' 'eathen foreign nigger German spies gettin' ready to murder us all in our beds under our noses, an' 'ere you sit and do nothin'. I'm ashamed of you, Artie, I am. You go spendin' all yer time with yer nose in detective stories, an' dreamin' about the promotion you're goin' to get; an' now you get a real fine chance o' detectin' something an' runnin' a lot of shady foreigners in, an' all you do is twiddle yer great silly thumbs an' say, 'Well, now, auntie'!"

"But 'ow can I go to the 'ouse?" wailed the sole representative of law and order in Denmore miserably. "You can't take a man up 'cause 'e's a foreigner."

"No, worse luck." Mrs. Rudd considered that in any properly-governed state a law to that effect would have been made long ago. "But you can take 'im up for 'oardin' food. It ain't for me to teach you yer own job, Artie Jobling; if I was policeman 'ere I'd pretty soon think out a way to get into that 'ouse an' 'ave a look round. 'Ow did the ones in them books o' yours do it?"

"Disguised theirselves gen'rally," said Artie without enthusiasm, "an' went an' walked out with the maids."

"Well, why don't you do that?"

"I ain't no 'and at disguises," sighed Artie, gazing sadly at his regulation boots. "I sh'd 'ave all the kids in the village runnin' arter me."

Mrs. Rudd followed the direction of her nephew's eyes, and forbore to press the point further.

"Besides," resumed P.C. Jobling after a little reflection, "they say that the maids in this 'ere 'ouse is niggers, an' none too respectable at that. 'Orrible things might 'appen."

He brooded darkly on the possibility.

"Well, if you don't do something we shall 'ave 'orrible things 'appening any'ow," said Mrs. Rudd. "Sure as fate we'll all be murdered. I was saying to-day to Mrs. Green...."

"If I went," interrupted Artie, struck with a new thought, "they might murder me."

"They might," agreed his aunt, "an' they might not. Any'ow, that's what you're 'ere for, Artie. If anybody in this village is to be murdered it ought to be you, Artie. It's your plain dooty. If you ain't goin' to do it, you ought to be in the trenches."

Constable Jobling stared at her without a word. This view of his mission in life had never been brought to his notice before. Apparently it disconcerted him no little.

"Lot o' good the police force is when anything does 'appen." Mrs. Rudd returned with freshness and vigor to her original line of argument. "An' a lot o' promotion you'll get, my lad. Why, I'd make a better policeman'n you out o' a turnip-top an' a broom 'andle any day. Why 'ere's Mrs. Green."

The door-latch clicked, and Mrs. Green of the general stores entered. "'Ere, Maria," said Mrs. Rudd, "I was just tellin' young Artie...."

But young Artie had had enough. He tramped heavily out, slammed the post-office door behind him, and retired to his own cottage to brood on the cursed spite which had selected him to minister to times so out of joint.

For ten days or more the whole village had been in a ferment over the strange people and stranger doings at the Manor. The fact that neither the vicar nor his wife, who had been seen to leave the place, could be induced to say a word of what they had seen, only deepened the dark and formless suspicions held in the neighborhood. Jobling had had an increasingly strong idea that the public opinion of him as a smart and ambitious young member of a distinguished body was gradually changing, but his outspoken aunt was the first person to put this new feeling into words and to force the unfortunate policeman to look facts in the face. He was frightened of the unknown murdering heathens who might possibly lurk in ambush for him in the grounds of Denmore Manor, but he was even more frightened of the known and well-tried power of his aunt's tongue. He sat behind the curtains in his cottage and gave himself up to melancholy thought.

Before long he saw Mrs. Green, her chat with the post-mistress concluded, coming up the street. She met with another decrepit old dame, and the two began to discuss some choice piece of scandal with great animation. Mrs. Green closed her peroration by pointing at Jobling's window and shaking her head sorrowfully. The other lady also shook her head and doddered off up the street, where she could be seen a few moments later in deep and direful converse with her dearest friend.

Jobling knew the signs. Unless he did something, and quickly, he was a marked man. But how could he push himself into a house without a pretext? Failing the subtle methods of the detective of fiction, what reason could a large but timid policeman find for penetrating into a nest of probably dangerous criminals without giving them offense?

The problem remained unsolved all day, and troubled him so much that at night he found himself attracted to the place by a sort of morbid fascination. Twice, greatly daring, he walked up and down the strip of road on which the Manor grounds fronted; and then, turning down an unfrequented lane, he reached a corner which was the only spot not actually in the grounds from which the Manor could be seen. He hardly knew why he had come there, as it was a dark, moonless night, and he could not expect to see as far as the house. But when he reached the corner and looked across the fields, the whole building was blazing with lights, standing out pitilessly against the decorous war-time gloom. P.C. Jobling heaved a sigh of relief and went home with his problem solved. He would call on Mr. Wentworth on the morrow and would point out to him politely, but firmly, that he must not show bright lights at night. Not even the most murdering of heathens, or the most heathen of murderers, he felt, could take exception to that.

Next day, however, the prospect looked less bright. He was not quite so sure that his reception would be peaceable. He pictured himself penetrating into the fastnesses of the Manor and never again coming out—never, that is, alive. He decided that he would let his aunt know where he was going; then he could at least be sure that he would not die quite unavenged. Then, on second thoughts, he determined to say nothing about it. If he did, he would be tied down definitely to a venture of which he disliked the idea more and more. He put on his helmet and walked majestically through the village, to restore his self-respect. Unfortunately for his purpose, the first person he met was Master Bobby Myers, who since his exploit of climbing over the Manor wall had regarded himself as no small hero.

"Yah!" said Bobby with derision. "'Oo's afraid of niggers?"

Outwardly Jobling did not deign to notice this insult, but it struck deep all the same. He strode back through the village and burst into the little post-office.

"Auntie," he said loudly, "I'm goin' up to the Manor to-day to 'ave a look round."

"An' about time too," replied his aunt in acid tones.

But there were several people present, and it was obvious that P.C. Jobling's resolution had caused the general opinion to veer round once again in his favor.

"Good lad," said an aged gentleman. "Find out all you can. Thieves an' robbers they'll be, I reckon. Tell p'liceman what you 'eard, Mary."

Mary, one of the maids at Dunwater Park, spoke up, pleased at occupying a position of public importance.

"They're gold hoarders, Mr. Jobling," she said. "The mistress an' Lootenant Allen was there yesterday an' saw it."

"Ah," put in somebody, "an' where do they get their food from, eh? Not in the village, nor yet from London. You go an' 'ave a look round, Artie, an' if you come back all right you'll be made a sergeant."

"Why shouldn't I come back all right?" demanded Artie, with a chill at his spine. "Miss FitzPeter did."

"She's quality—they wouldn't dare touch 'er."

P.C. Jobling returned to his cottage in a despondent mood. There was no going back for him now—he had burnt his boats. All the old ladies of the village would be on duty behind the curtained windows to see him start on his quest. Struck with self-compassion he prepared himself a more than usually lavish meal, just in case it should be his last. Then he smoked a reflective pipe. The sun was hot, and a comfortable drowsiness began to steal over him.... His head nodded.... For a second or two he dozed off.... Then, suddenly wakeful, he put on his helmet and started out, feeling every inch a hero. The village street was deserted except for a dog asleep in the very middle of it; but Jobling knew that he was performing under the eyes of an appraising and critical public. He walked as jauntily as his official boots would allow, his head well back and his chest well out.

As soon as he was clear of the village, however, and had reached the stretch of lonely road leading to the Manor gates, his pace slackened and his chest deflated suddenly. He began to recall all the wild and vaguely terrific rumors about the people at Denmore and his heroism oozed slowly out of his backbone. When he came at last in sight of the gates themselves, he stopped stock still on the road and wrestled fiercely with himself.

Supposing he turned tail now, would he ever be able to live it down in the village? He thought of his aunt's tongue—of Mrs. Green's wicked old face as she talked to her wicked old crony in the street—of Bobby Myers' taunt, and he knew that whatever lay before him would be the lesser of two evils. He reached the gates and paused once more, as though he could see written above them in letters of fire "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Then with shaking knees he passed in and up the gloomy avenue.

Alf chanced to be looking out of a window overlooking the drive, and saw him as he turned the corner.

"Lumme!" he called to Bill. "The police!"

"Let 'em," responded Bill lazily. He was lying back on a long chair, with his beloved flagon beside him; and the indefatigable Lucy, garbed like Solomon in all his glory, was fanning him with enthusiasm. "Let 'em," he repeated, and closed his eyes happily.

"But look 'ere, what can 'e want? An' 'sposin' 'e wants to know 'oo we are?"

"Tell 'im," said Bill, "Mr. Wentworth an' 'is friend, Mr. Montmorency, of Denmore Manor."

"But if 'e wants to see our papers?"

Bill sat up with a spasm of energy.

"What's it matter what 'e wants, you chump? You're a blinkin' landowner now, an' p'licemen don't matter. Be 'aughty with 'im an' kick 'im out."

"You'd better see 'im, Bill."

"Me?" Bill sank back once more on his cushions. "Why should I do yer dirty work? I'm quite comfortable as I am. See 'im yerself, an' be 'aughty with 'im. Call 'im 'My man'! Probably 'e wants a subscription. Give 'im 'arf-a-crown. On'y you'd better 'urry down before Mustapha gets 'old of 'im an' gives 'im a few bags o' gold; that'd put us fair in the cart. Keep the fan goin', Lucy, my dear."

Alf tore down the stairs and met P.C. Jobling on the steps of the Manor. Each made great outward show of boldness, but it would be difficult to say which felt less bold in his heart. There was an awkward pause.

"W—w—well," said Alf at last, mindful of Bill's advice. "Wh—what can I do for you—er—my man?"

The words were haughty enough to show the most imposing of policemen his position in the scheme of things; but the tone in which they were uttered entirely spoilt their effect. P.C. Jobling took heart of grace and puffed out his admirably developed chest.

"It is my dooty to inform you, sir, that you 'ave several exceedingly bright lights showin' from yer 'ouse at nights, contrary to regulations."

"I'm—I'm sorry," stammered Alf, relieved that the policeman had come on so trivial an errand, but disturbed at having incurred the notice of the Law. "If you'll wait 'arf a second I'll 'ave my butler in an' tick 'im orf for it. 'Ere, miss," he said to a dusky but decorously clad maidservant, "send Mr. Farr. Savvy?"

The maid, catching the name, sped off. P.C. Jobling, feeling now quite reassured that his life was in no danger, began to sigh (like Alexander the Great) for fresh worlds to conquer. He knew that if he penetrated no further than the Manor's outer defenses it would go hard with him when next he faced his aunt.

He took off his helmet and mopped his moist brow.

"'Ot day, ain't it, sir?" he said.

Alf, whose chief rule in life had been always to keep on the right side of the law, swallowed the bait whole.

"It is 'ot," he agreed. "'Ow'd a glass o' beer be, eh?"

"You're very kind, sir."

"Not a bit—not a bit, my man." This time the tone was much better. "Farr," he continued as that functionary appeared. "'Ere's the police been about the lights. It's quite time as you knew as 'ow we don't 'ave to show no lights at night. 'Ave 'em covered to-night, or I'll know the reason why. An' bring this gentleman a pint of beer."

Mustapha bowed gravely and departed. Now was the crafty Jobling's opportunity.

"Oh, no, sir," he said. "I couldn't let 'im 'ave all that trouble, sir, I'll go into the kitchen myself, sir."

He was across the hall before Alf recovered his wits. The master of Denmore was exceedingly proud of his kitchens, but he realized in a flash that no minion of the law must be allowed to gaze upon them. The Manor kitchens were of noble proportions—the banqueting hall had been built to seat 200 people, and the cooking accommodation was on the same generous scale—but they were none too big for Alf's enormous retinue. Crowds of dusky workers were ceaselessly engaged on the preparation of the sumptuous banquets which Messrs. Montmorency and Wentworth failed dismally to appreciate; and there was an air of bustle and lavishness and reckless waste about the whole assembly. Butchers might be seen forever slicing up carcasses of meat; pastry cooks and confectioners were endlessly intent on the concoction of wonderful dainties; scullions ceaselessly carried away buckets whose contents bore witness to an utter disregard of the principles of economy and the possibility of by-products. Even Alf, who knew that his foodstuffs were drawn from stocks not under the control of any government official, had felt a twinge of conscience when he had gazed upon the scene. And now the round eyes of P.C. Arthur Jobling would be taking in its details; and if something were not done very quickly, the official notebook of P.C. Arthur Jobling would be taking those details in to ... and then....

Alf snatched at the Button and rubbed it.

"Eustace," he commanded tersely. "Take that blinkin' policeman out of the kitchen an' put 'im back where 'e came from."

"Lord, I hear and obey."

Eustace was gone.

"'Ope 'e 'asn't seen too much already," soliloquized Alf. "'Owever, it's done now, an' I don't suppose 'e'll come back 'ere in a 'urry. Better be on the safe side, though. Mustapha, tell 'em to be a bit more careful in the kitchen, will you? If the Food Controller comes there'll be 'ell on."

Mustapha did not quite get the hang of this remark; but he did gather that the kitchens under his care were being adversely criticised. He assumed a tone of deferential remonstrance.

"Lord, thy kitchens are the most lavishly furnished of all the world; thy larders are stocked from floor to ceiling with all manner of rich meats, with rare fruits, with spices, with grain of every kind, so that whoso should see them would say, 'Truly the lord of the Button is a great Caliph, for what man of lesser rank could make so brave a show.'"

"Well, that's just what I'm grousin' about," said Alf irritably. "You're just as 'olesale as ole Eustace. Put the stuff away out o' sight somewhere, or you'll 'ave us all doing time. Step lively now; you never know 'oo's goin' to pop in on us next."

Mustapha, feeling he was losing his grip of things, went off to execute this latest strange command of his strange master. Alf went upstairs again to Bill, feeling rather weak.

As for P.C. Arthur Jobling, in the very act of taking out his official notebook he found himself sitting once more in the chair in his little parlor. He rubbed his eyes and blinked around him; then he seized hold of his own arm and pinched himself—and, leaping to his feet with a yell, decided he was really awake.

"Gorblimey!" he said to himself. "Must 'ave been a dream! I must 'ave dropped off arter all. I remember feelin' mazed-like, but I got up and—no, I can't 'ave, 'cos 'ere I am. Well, well! It was that life-like I could 'a sworn it 'appened. And 'oardin'! My eye—piles an' piles o' food there was. P'raps it's a 'int from 'Eaven to tell me what to look for. Well, if I'm goin' it's high time I started. 'Allo, I must 'ave put me 'elmet on in me sleep!"

He opened the door and stepped into the street. Conscious that he was performing under critical and appraising eyes, he puffed out his chest and walked as jauntily as was consistent with dignity—and behind the curtains there reigned consternation; for while everybody had seen him start out half-an-hour before, nobody had seen him come back; and yet here he was, starting out again! When he cleared the village, he stopped and scratched his head uneasily.

"I'm sure I done all this before," he said uneasily. "That blessed dream o' mine seems to be with me still."

He turned up the dark avenue, and the eerie feeling deepened. His knees shook, and he had much ado to prevent his teeth from chattering, but he went doggedly on, and once more turned the corner.

"By Gum," said Alf blankly, "'ere's that blinkin' copper again. I can't face 'im again, Bill. You'll 'ave to go."

Bill, who had reached a stage where even his appetite for beer had been temporarily sated, got up.

"Righto," he said, "anything to oblige. 'E won't find no food this time, any'ow."

He lurched downstairs and met the policeman in the drive. Jobling drew a breath of relief at finding that he was received by a stranger.

"That settles it," he said to himself. "'Twas on'y a dream. That black butler ain't to be seen, neither. It is my dooty to inform you, sir," he went on aloud in measured official tones, "that you 'ave several exceedingly bright lights showin' from yer 'ouse at nights, contrary to regulations."

"'Ave I really, ole son?" said Bill breezily. "My mistake! Come right in, won't you, an' 'ave a drink while I see about it."

Alf, watching at the upper window, watched them disappear, with a puzzled expression.

"Now, why the 'ell," he asked himself, "does 'e bother to tell the tale about them lights over again? That's on'y cammyflage, 'cause it must be the food 'e's come about this time. 'E must think we're mugs if 'e tries to do us with the same yarn twice.... Wonder what's 'appening?"

He gazed moodily out of the window in a state of great suspense. But he had not long to wait. There came a sound of some one running swiftly in heavy boots; and P.C. Jobling appeared, with eyes staring in terror, fleeing down the drive as though pursued by the Furies. Alf watched him out of sight, and turned in amazement as Bill staggered into the room and collapsed on his divan, weak with laughter.

"What's 'appened, Bill? What you done?"

"Me? Nothin'. I took 'im an' showed 'im the kitchens, all as bare as a board—an' just as we turns to come out we meets Mr. Farr comin' in. The minute the copper sees Farr 'e gives a yell an' about-turns an' legs it so you couldn't see 'is coat-tails for 'eel-plates! Laugh? I laughed meself dry. Get me another, Lucy!"

But Alf looked grave.

"I don't like it," he said in a troubled voice. "I do 'ate monkeyin' about with the p'lice. This ain't goin' to do us no good, you mark my words!"