interrupted a spell of that tropical weather which sometimes in July
and August brings the breath of Africa to London, and this coolness
resulting from the storm was very welcome. Then:

"Well, good night," I said, and was about to pursue my way when the
telephone bell in the police-hut rang sharply.

"Hullo," called the sergeant.

I paused, idly curious concerning the message, and:

"The Red House," continued the sergeant, "in College Road? Yes, I know
it. It's on Bolton's beat, and he is due here now. Very good; I'll
tell him."

He hung up the receiver and, turning to me, smiled and nodded his head
resignedly.

"The police get some funny jobs, sir," he confided. "Only last night a
gentleman rang up the station and asked them to tell me to stop a
short, stout lady with yellow hair and a big blue hat (that was the
only description) as she passed this point and to inform her that her
husband had had to go out but that he had left the door-key just
inside the dog-kennel!"

He laughed good-humoredly.

"Now to-night," he resumed, "here's somebody just rung up to say that
he thinks, only _thinks_, mind you, that he has forgotten to lock his
garage and will the constable on that beat see if the keys have been