"This is the person who will be charged, I think," Hewitt pursued,
addressing the officers, and indicating Lloyd with his finger.

"What, Lloyd?" gasped Sir James, aghast. "No--not Lloyd--nonsense!"

"He doesn't seem to think it nonsense himself, does he?" Hewitt placidly
observed. Lloyd had sank on a chair, and, gray of face, was staring
blindly at the man he had run against at the office door that morning. His
lips moved in spasms, but there was no sound. The wilted flower fell from
his button-hole to the floor, but he did not move.

"This is his accomplice," Hewitt went on, placing the parrot and cage on
the hall table, "though I doubt whether there will be any use in charging
_him_. Eh, Polly?"

The parrot put his head aside and chuckled. "Hullo, Polly!" it quietly
gurgled. "Come along!"

Sir James Norris was hopelessly bewildered. "Lloyd--Lloyd," he said, under
his breath. "Lloyd--and that!"

"This was his little messenger, his useful Mercury," Hewitt explained,
tapping the cage complacently; "in fact, the actual lifter. Hold him up!"

The last remark referred to the wretched Lloyd, who had fallen forward
with something between a sob and a loud sigh. The policemen took him by
the arms and propped him in his chair.

* * * * *