n back, changed her mind, got bewildered,
stopped suddenly and yelled.

Giles caught her by the arm, bore her to the pavement, and turned, just
in time to see the hansom dash on in the hope of being overlooked. Vain
hope! Number 666 saw the number of the hansom, booked it in his memory
while he assisted in raising up an old gentleman who had been
overturned, though not injured, in endeavouring to avoid it.

During the lull--for there are lulls in the rush of London traffic, as
in the storms of nature,--Giles transferred the number of that hansom to
his note-book, thereby laying up a little treat for its driver in the
shape of a little trial the next day terminating, probably, with a fine.

Towards five in the afternoon the strain of all this began to tell even
on the powerful frame of Giles Scott, but no symptom did he show of
fatigue, and so much reserve force did he possess that it is probable he
would have exhibited as calm and unwearied a front if he had remained on
duty for eighteen hours instead of eight.

About that hour, also, there came an unusual glut to the traffic, in the
form of a troop of the horse-guards. These magnificent creatures,
resplendent in glittering steel, white plumes, and black boots, were
passing westward. Giles stood in front of the arrested stream. A
number of people stood, as it were, under his shadow. Refuge-island was
overflowing. Comments, chiefly eulogistic, were being freely made and
some impatience was being manifested by drivers, when a little shriek
was heard, and a child's voice exclaimed:--

"Oh! papa, papa--there's _my_ policeman--the one I so nearly killed.
He's _not_ dead after all!"

Giles forgot his dignity for one moment, and, looking round, met the
eager gaze of little Di Brandon.

Another moment and duty required his undivided attention, so that he
lost sight of her, but Di took good care not to lose sight of him.

"We will wait here, darling," said her father, referring to
refuge-island on which he stood, "and when he is disengaged we can speak
to him."

"Oh! I'm _so_ glad he's not dead," said little Di, "and p'raps he'll be
able to show us the way to my boy's home."

Di had a method of adopting, in a motherly way, all who, in the remotest
manner, came into her life. Thus she not only spoke of our butcher and
our baker, which was natural, but referred to "my policeman" and "my
boy" ever since the day of the accident.

When Giles had set his portion