the screen of a big Parisian hat--that did for him on the spot.

He saw at a glance that she was French--exceedingly French--and he
preferred English beauty, as a rule. But, French or English, beauty is
beauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatingly
sprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revelling
in her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but rather
firmly to him.

"Sair, I have to give you much gratitude," she said in a pretty, wistful
sort of way, as they stepped on to the pavement. Then she dropped her
hand from his sleeve, looked up at him, and shyly drooped her head, as
if overcome with confusion and surprise at the youth and good looks of
him. "Ah, it is nowhere in the world but Londres one finds these
delicate attentions, these splendid sergeants de ville," she added, with
a sort of sigh. "You are wonnerful--you are mos' wonnerful, you Anglais
poliss. Sair, I am a stranger; I know not ze ways of this city of
amazement, and if monsieur would so kindly direct me where to find the
Abbey of the Ves'minster--"

Before P.C. Collins could tell her that if that were her destination,
she was a good deal out of her latitude; indeed, even before she
concluded what she was saying, over the rumble of the traffic there rose
a thin, shrill piping sound, which to ears trained to the call of it
possessed a startling significance.

It was the shrilling of a police whistle, far off down the Embankment.

"Hullo! That's a call to the man on point!" exclaimed Collins, all alert
at once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of my