moment she would have hidden it.

"Which pipe?--oh, this pipe?--_this_ pipe ain't nothing. Left stood
overnight, I suppose." And she paused to think of the best means of
getting the pipe suppressed. There was no open grate in the bar to throw
it behind. She was a poor liar, too, and was losing her head.

"Give me hold a quarter of a minute," says the officer. She cannot
refuse to give the pipe up. "Someone's had a whiff off this pipe since
closing-time last night," he continues, touching the still warm bowl;
for all this had passed very quickly. And he actually puts the pipe to
his lips, and in two or three draws works up its lingering spark. "A
good mouthful of smoke," says he, blowing it out in a cloud.

"You can look where you like," mutters the woman sullenly. "There's no
man for you. Only you won't want to disturb my father. He's only just
fell asleep."

"He'll be sleeping pretty sound after fifteen year." Thus the officer,
and the unhappy woman felt she had indeed made a complete mess of the
case. "Which is his room now, ma'am? We'll go there first."

Up the stairs and past a window looking on the garden. The day is hot
beneath the July sun, and the two men in uniform who are coming up the
so-called garden, or rather gravelled yard, behind The Pigeons, are
mopping the sweat from their brows. They might have been customers from
the river, but Miss Hawkins knows the look of them too well for that.
The house is surrounded--watched back and front. Escape is hopeless,
successful concealment the only chance.

"Been on his back like that for fifteen years, has he?" So says the
officer looking at the prostrate figure of the old man on the couch. He
is not asleep now--far from it. His mouth begins to move, uttering
jargon. His one living eye has light in it. There is something he wants
to say and struggles for in vain. "Can't make much out of that," is the
verdict of his male hearer. His daughter can say that he is asking his
visitor's name and what he wants. He can understand when spoken to, she
says. But the intruder is pointing at the door leading to the roof.
"Where does that go to?" he asks.

"Out on the tiles. I'll see for the key and let you through, if you'll
stop a minute." It is the only good bit of acting she has done. Perhaps
despair gives histrionic power. She sees a chance of deferring the
breaking-down of that door, and who knows what may hang on a few minutes
of successful delay? Before she goes she