se
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
mates is a-signalling me."

"Mates, monsieur? Mates? Signalling? I shall not understand the vords.
But yes, vat shall that mean--eh?"

"Good Lord, don't bother me now! I--I mean, wait a bit. That's the call
to 'head off' someone, and--By George! There he is now, coming head on,
the hound, and running like the wind!"

For of a sudden, through a break in the traffic, a scudding figure had
sprung into sight--the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and a shining
"topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small, turned-up
moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees only on the
shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distant whistle
shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of "Head
him off!" "Stop that man!" _et cetera_; then those on the pavement near
to the fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in a twinkling,
what with cabmen, tram-men, draymen, and pedestrians shouting, there was
hubbub enough for Hades.

"A swell pickpocket, I'll lay my life," commented Collins, as he squared
himself for an encounter and made ready to leap on the man when he
came within gripping distance. "Here! get out of the way, madmazelly.
Business before pleasure. And, besides, you're like to get bowled over
in the rush. Here, chauffeur!"--this to the driver of a big, black
motor-car which swept round the angle of the bridge at that moment,
and made as though to scud down the Embankment into the thick of the
chase--"pull that thing up sharp! Stop where you are! Dead still. At
once, at once, do you hear? We don't want you getting in the way. Now,