e you--what do you mean--"

"Lord knows," I interrupted her; "but if you will tell Horrex to get
himself and the policeman into the cab, I will run upstairs, dress, and
join them in five minutes."

IV.

In five minutes I had donned my ordinary clothes again and, descending
through the pack of guests to the front door, found a four-wheeler
waiting, with Horrex inside and a policeman whom, as I guessed, he had
been drugging with strong waters for an hour past in some secluded chamber
of the house. The fellow was somnolent, and in sepulchral silence we
journeyed to Vine Street. There I chose to be conducted to the cell
alone, and Mr. Horrex, hearing my decision, said fervently, "May you be
rewarded for your goodness to me and mine!"

I discovered afterwards that he had a growing family of six dependent on
him, and think this must explain a gratefulness which puzzled me at the
time.

"He's quieter this last half-hour," said the police sergeant, unlocking
the cell and opening the door with extreme caution.

The light fell and my eyes rested on a sandy-haired youth with a receding
chin, a black eye, a crumpled shirt-front smeared with blood, and a
dress-suit split and soiled with much rolling in the dust.

"Friend of yours, sir, to bail you out," announced the sergeant.

"I have no friends," answered the prisoner in hollow tones. "Who's this
Johnny?"

"My name is Richardson," I began.

"From the Grampian Hills? Al' ri', old man; what can I do for you?"

"Well, if you've no objection, I've come to bail you out."

"Norra a bit of it. Go 'way: I want t'other Richardson, good old
larks-in-aspic! Sergeant--"

"Yessir."

"I protest--you hear?--protest in sacred name of law; case of mish--case
of mistaken 'dentity. Not this Richardson--take him away! Don't blame
you: common name. Richardson _I_ want has whiskers down to here,
tiddy-fol-ol; calls 'em 'Piccadilly weepers.' Can't mistake him.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

"Look here," said I, "just you listen to this; I'm Richardson, and I'm
here to bail you out."

"Can't do it, old man; mean well, no doubt, but can't do it. One man lead
a horse to the water--twenty can't bail him out. Go 'way and don't fuss."

I glanced at the sergeant. "You'll let me deal with him as I like?" I
asked.

He grinned. "Bless you, sir, we're used to it. _I_ ain't listening."

"Thank you." I turned to the prisoner. "Now, then, you drunken li