serted roads about Croydon.

Above all, and in this they are again police officers, they have a very
sure appreciation of human nature. They do not harass those with whom
they are concerned unnecessarily, but whether it is the London County
Council, a powerful omnibus corporation, or an unlucky hansom driver,
they act impartially, without fear or favour.

Outside their own province they have nothing to do with crime, though it
sometimes happens that their records are useful to other departments of
Scotland Yard. In reality, the actual police functions of the Public
Carriage Department are few, and for this reason there are people who
hold that it should be entirely separated from the force. The argument
is a forcible one, yet it is not complete.

Time was when all licences were issued from Somerset House. But even
then the police were asked to carry out certain enquiry work. It has
been suggested that the London County Council should take it over. But
the London County Council is not an impartial body in regard to public
carriages. It owns tramway cars which are run in opposition to motor
omnibuses. A Traffic Board for London might solve the difficulty.

But, however plausible such theoretical reasons for separating this work
from the police may sound, one thing is certain. The duties could not be
more efficiently performed than they are at present. A perfect system
has been devised by which not only are the perils of the street
minimised for pedestrians, but the comfort and convenience of all who
travel by public vehicles are ensured, whether it be the millionaire in
a taxi, or the factory hand in a workman's tramway car.

The Public Carriage Department has learnt its business. It has grown up
with the growth of motor traction. It knows the tricks of the trade, and
those who would throw dust in its eyes must needs be ingenious. To hand
over its duties to an outside body would result, at any rate for a time,
in something like chaos.

CHAPTER XV.

LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED.

This is the legend of the lost centipede that once held undisputed sway
of the Lost Property Office at Scotland Yard before it came to an
untimely end. It arrived with a cab-driver, housed in a little tin box,
comfortably lined and pierced with air-holes. Casually an official
opened the box, caught one glimpse of its contents, and jumped for
safety while the centipede pleased at the opportunity of stretching its
multitude of legs, can