The Just Men of Cordova. Edgar Wallace

self-consciously.

      “It is rather,” the colonel went on, “that I take advantage of your inestimable friendship to seek your advice.”

      He stopped in his walk, drew a chair opposite to where the sergeant was sitting, and seated himself.

      “Constable Fellowe, the man of whom I have complained, had the good fortune to render a service to the daughter of Mr. Theodore Sandford—I see you know the gentleman.”

      The sergeant nodded; he had heard of Mr. Theodore Sandford, as who had not? For Theodore Sandford was a millionaire ironmaster who had built a veritable palace at Hampstead, had purchased the Dennington “Velasquez,” and had presented it to the nation.

      “Your constable,” continued Colonel Black, “sprang upon a motor-car Miss Sandford was driving down a steep hill, the brakes of which had gone wrong, and at some risk to himself guided the car through the traffic when, not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Sandford had lost her head.”

      “Oh, it was him, was it?” said the sergeant disparagingly.

      “It was him,” agreed the colonel out of sheer politeness. “Now these young people have met unknown to the father of Miss Sandford, and—well, you understand.”

      The sergeant did not understand, but said nothing.

      “I do not suggest,” said the colonel, “that there is anything wrong—but a policeman, sergeant, not even an officer like yourself—a policeman!”

      Deplorable! said the sergeant’s head, eyes and hands.

      “For some extraordinary reason which I cannot fathom,” the colonel proceeded, “Mr. Sandford tolerates the visits of this young man; that, I fear, is a matter which we cannot go into, but I should like you—well, I should like you to use your influence with Fellowe.”

      Sergeant Gurden rose to depart. He had no influence, but some power. He understood a little of what the other man was driving at, the more so when—

      “If this young man gets into trouble, I should like to know,” said Colonel Black, holding out his firm hand; “I should like to know very much indeed.”

      “He is a rare pushful fellow, that Fellowe,” said the sergeant severely. “He gets to know the upper classes in some way that I can’t understand, and I dare say he has wormed himself into their confidence. I always say that the kitchen is the place for the policeman, and when I see a constable in the drawing-room I begin to suspect things. There is a great deal of corruption—” He stopped, suddenly realizing that he himself was in a drawing-room, and that corruption was an ugly and an incongruous word.

      Colonel Black accompanied him to the door.

      “You understand, sergeant,” he said, “that this man—Fellowe, did you call him?—may make a report over your head or behind your back. I want you to take great care that such a report, if it is made, shall come to me. I do not want to be taken by surprise. If there is any charge to answer I want to know all about it in advance. It will make the answering ever so much easier, as I am a busy man.”

      He shook hands with the sergeant and saw him out of the house.

      Sergeant Gurden went back to the station with a brisk step and a comforting knowledge that the evening had been well spent.