ollen and bloodied lip that babbled contrition along
with appeals to be "got out of this" and lamentations for the day
he was born; and as on that day so on this a mother had found it
hard to recognise him. He wore a goodly but disorganised raiment;
a fur-lined great-coat, evening dress beneath it; but the tie was
missing, the shirt-collar had burst from its stud, the shirt-front
showed blood-stains, dirty finger-marks, smears of mud. Mud caked
his coat, its fur: apparently he had been rolling in mud. But the
worst was that he wept.

He wept copiously. Was it the late Mr. Gladstone who invented the
phrase "Reformation in a Flood"? Anyhow, it kept crossing and
re-crossing my mind absurdly as I surveyed this wreck that had called
itself Martin Luther. All the wine in him had turned to tears of
repentance, and he was pretty nauseous. I told him to stand up.

"This--er--gentleman," said I to the police-sergeant, "is called
Farrell--Mr. Peter Farrell. He lives," I said, as the address at the
foot of the _Times_ letter came to my memory, "at The Acacias,
Wimbledon."

The sergeant nodded slowly. "That's right, sir. I knew him well
enough. Attended a meeting of his only last Saturday--on duty,
that's to say."

We smiled. "He's not precisely a friend of mine," said I. "But we
have met in public life, and I'll be answerable for him. We must get
him out of this."

"There's no difficulty, sir, since we have the address. There was no
card or letter in his pocket, and he said he came from Wittenberg
through the Gates of Hell. I looked him up in the Directory and the
address is as you state. . . . But to tell you the truth, sir, I
didn't ring up his telephone number, thinking as a nap might bring
him round a bit. . . . We keep a taxi or two on call for these little
jobs, and I'll get a driver that can be trusted. I'll call up Sam
Hicks. There was a latch-key in the gentleman's pocket, and Sam
Hicks is capable of steering a case like this to bed and leaving the
summons pinned on his dressing-gown for a reminder. . . . But perhaps
you'll call around for him to-morrow morning, sir, and bring him?"

"I'll be damned if I do," said I. "He must take his risks and I'll
risk the bail. . . . Look here!"--I took Mr. Farrell by the collar
and my fingers touched mud. "Pah!" said I. "Can't we clean him up a
bit before consigning him? . . . Look here, Farrell! I'm sending you
home. Do you understand? And you're to retu