and that was quite right, of course, but not extra noble.

It was getting dusk when they reached the police-station. The
policeman told his tale to an inspector, who sat in a large bare
room with a thing like a clumsy nursery-fender at one end to put
prisoners in. Robert wondered whether it was a cell or a dock.

'Produce the coins, officer,' said the inspector.

'Turn out your pockets,' said the constable.

Cyril desperately plunged his hands in his pockets, stood still a
moment, and then began to laugh - an odd sort of laugh that hurt,
and that felt much more like crying. His pockets were empty. So
were the pockets of the others. For of course at sunset all the
fairy gold had vanished away.

'Turn out your pockets, and stop that noise,' said the inspector.

Cyril turned out his pockets, every one of the nine which enriched
his Norfolk suit. And every pocket was empty.

'Well!' said the inspector.

'I don't know how they done it - artful little beggars! They
walked in front of me the 'ole way, so as for me to keep my eye on
them and not to attract a crowd and obstruct the traffic.'

'It's very remarkable,' said the inspector, frowning.