The fresh outburst of music brought renewed prancing,
but the pair were in hand now, for Royson held the reins, and the mud-
bedaubed coachman was ready to twist their heads off in his wrath.
"Don't know what took 'em," he was gasping to the policeman. "Never
knew 'em be'ave like this afore. Quiet as sheep, they are, as a ryule."
"Too fat," explained the unemotional constable. "Give 'em more work an'
less corn. Wot's your name an' address? There's this 'ere lamp-post to
pay for. Cavalry charges in Buckingham Palace Road cost a bit."
An appreciative audience grinned at the official humor. But Royson was
listening to the somewhat lively conversation taking place behind him.
"Are you injured in any way?" cried the gentleman in the far coat,
obviously addressing the lady in the victoria. The too accurate cadence
in his words bespoke the foreigner, the man who has what is called "a
perfect command" of English.
"Not in the least, thank you," was the answer. The voice was clear,
musical, well-bred, and decidedly chilling.
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