“Go!” she breathed.  “No, stop!”

She stood trying in vain to make up her mind.  “Upstairs,” she said.  “Quick!” and, leading the way, entered her father’s bedroom, and, after a moment’s thought, opened the door of a cupboard in the corner.

“Get in there,” she whispered.

“But—­” objected the astonished Bligh.

The front door was heard to open.

“Police!” said Miss Pilbeam, in a thrilling whisper.  The skipper stepped into the cupboard without further parley, and the girl, turning the key, slipped it into her pocket and sped downstairs.

Sergeant Pilbeam was in the easy-chair, with his belt unfastened, when she entered the parlor, and, with a hungry reference to supper, sat watching her as she lit the lamp and drew down the blind.  With a lifelong knowledge of the requirements of the Force, she drew a jug of beer and placed it by his side while she set the table.

“Ah!  I wanted that,” said the sergeant.  “I’ve been running.”

Miss Pilbeam raised her eyebrows.

“After some sailor-looking chap that capsized me when I wasn’t prepared for it,” said her father, putting down his glass.  “It was a neat bit o’ work, and I shall tell him so when I catch him.  Look here!”

He stood up and exhibited the damage.

“I’ve rubbed off what I could,” he said, resuming his seat, “and I s’pose the rest’ll brush off when it’s dry.  To-morrow morning I shall go down to the harbor and try and spot my lord.”

He drew his chair to the table and helped himself, and, filling his mouth with cold meat and pickles, enlarged on his plans for the capture of his assailant; plans to which the undecided Miss Pilbeam turned a somewhat abstracted ear.

By the time her father had finished his supper she was trying, but in vain, to devise means for the prisoner’s escape.  The sergeant had opened the door of the room for the sake of fresh air, and it was impossible for anybody to come downstairs without being seen.  The story of a sickly geranium in the back-yard left him unmoved.

“I wouldn’t get up for all the geraniums in the world,” he declared.  “I’m just going to have one more pipe and then I’m off to bed.  Running don’t agree with me.”

He went, despite his daughter’s utmost efforts to prevent him, and she sat in silent consternation, listening to his heavy tread overhead.  She heard the bed creak in noisy protest as he climbed in, and ten minutes later the lusty snoring of a healthy man of full habit resounded through the house.

She went to bed herself at last, and, after lying awake for nearly a couple of hours, closed her eyes in order to think better.  She awoke with the sun pouring in at the window and the sounds of vigorous brushing in the yard beneath.

“I’ve nearly got it off,” said the sergeant, looking up.  “It’s destroying evidence in a sense, I suppose; but I can’t go about with my uniform plastered with mud.  I’ve had enough chaff about it as it is.”