teps with an air of great determination he comes to a halt
before the couple opposite.

"'Ere, I've bin lookin' for you," he begins accusingly.

The Rolls-Royce owner takes the cigar from his mouth and gazes in
astonishment at the accusing apparition before him.

"A hour ago," pursues the newcomer relentlessly, "you was driving
along the front here in the whackin' great car. It ain't no good
denyin' it, 'cos I took the number."

"What d'ye mean--denying it?" exclaims Rolls-Royce. "Who's denying
anythink?"

"It ain't no good tryin' to deny it," retorts the other. "An' it ain't
no good denyin' wot you did neether, 'cos I've got my missus 'ere to
prove it."

"What I did?" echoes the astonished man. "What did I do?"

"Ran over my child's b'loon," states the accuser, fixing him with a
pitiless eye. For the moment the object of this serious charge is too
taken aback to be capable of speech.

"'Ran over my child's b'loon,'" repeats the other inexorably.
"Leastways your chauffer did. An' when we 'ollered out to yer to stop
you just rushed on like a runaway railway-train."

Rolls-Royce, conscious of the curious gaze of the entire company,
pulls himself together and regards his accuser unfavourably.

"First I've 'eard of it," he growls. "Where was the balloon anyway? In
the road, I s'pose?"

"Yes, it _was_ in the road," retorts the other defiantly, "where
it's got every right to be. Road's there for the convenience of
b'loon-fliers just as much as for motor-cars. More."

"Look 'ere, that's enough of it," says the car-owner harshly. "If
the balloon got run over it's yer own fault for letting it go in the
road."

"That's a nice way to talk," suddenly comes in shrill tones from the
woman below, who has edged her way to the foot of the steps. "We don't
go buyin' balloons for you to run over in yer cars. We're respectable
people, we are, an' we work for our livin'."

"Drivin' about in a car like an express train, runnin' over other
people's b'loons," corroborates her husband bitterly. "Wot country
d'yer think yer in? Prussia?"

By this time a small crowd has gathered on the pavement and is gazing
up at the protagonists with ghoulish interest. The lady in the
diamonds, a prey to mingled indignation and alarm, has leant towards
her spouse and is whispering to him urgently, but he shakes her off
with an impatient movement.

"Not on yer life," he snaps. "They won't get a cent out o' me."

"Ho, won't we!" exclaims hi