to a gesture from his mother, rose sulkily to his feet.

"Job I hate!" he muttered as he left the room.

The rest of the family, full of the small curiosity of people of
their class, were intent upon listening for voices outside. The
demeanour of Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, therefore, escaped their notice.
It is doubtful, in any case, whether their perceptions would have
been sufficiently keen to have enabled them to trace the workings of
emotion in the countenance of a person so magnificently endowed by
Providence with the art of subterfuge. Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald seemed
simply to have stiffened in acute and earnest attention. It was only
for a moment that he hesitated. His unfailing inspiration told him
the truth!

His course of action was simple, - he rose to his feet and strolled
to the window.

"Some people who have lost their way in the fog, perhaps," he remarked.
"What a night!"

He laid his hand upon the sash - simultaneously there was a rush of
cold air into the room, a half-angry, half-frightened exclamation
from Adolphus in the passage, a scream from Miss Maud - and no Mr.
Spencer Fitzgerald! No one had time to be more than blankly
astonished. The door was opened, and a police inspector, in very
nice dark braided uniform and a peaked cap, stood in the doorway.

Mr. Barnes dropped the port, and Mrs. Barnes, emulating her daughter's
example, screamed. The inspector, as though conscious of the draught,