"No," communed Peter to himself aloud, "I don't honestly think
there can be any method, creditable or discreditable, that I
haven't tried." Peter flung the one-sided interview into the
wastepaper-basket, and slipping his notebook into his pocket,
departed to drink tea with a lady novelist, whose great desire, as
stated in a postscript to her invitation, was to avoid publicity,
if possible.

Tommy, as soon as Peter's back was turned, fished it out again.

An hour later in the fog around St. James's Palace stood an Imp,
clad in patched trousers and a pepper-and-salt jacket turned up
about the neck, gazing with admiring eyes upon the sentry.

"Now, then, young seventeen-and-sixpence the soot," said the
sentry, "what do you want?"

"Makes you a bit anxious, don't it," suggested the Imp, "having a
big pot like him to look after?"

"Does get a bit on yer mind, if yer thinks about it," agreed the
sentry.

"How do you find him to talk to, like?"

"Well," said the sentry, bringing his right leg into action for the
purpose of relieving his left, "ain't 'ad much to do with 'im
myself, not person'ly, as yet. Oh, 'e ain't a bad sort when yer
know 'im."