Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer.  All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

[Illustration:  “Mr. Sims watched her tenderly as she drew the beer.”]

She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves.

“What’s that?” she cried.

They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair.  Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting.

Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet.  Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter.  “You—­you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims.  “What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring.

“I was—­going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims.

“Well, they’ll be easier to carry now,” said Mr. Drill, simply.

Mr. Sims glanced at him sharply, and then, to the extreme astonishment of Mr. Gunnill, snatched up the relics and, wrapping them up in the paper, dashed out of the house.  Mr. Gunnill turned a look of blank inquiry upon Mr. Drill.

“It wasn’t Cooper’s number on the helmet,” said that gentleman.

“Eh?” shouted Mr. Gunnill.

“How do you know?” inquired Selina.

“I just happened to notice,” replied Mr. Drill.  He reached down as though to take up the carpet-bag which he had placed by the side of his chair, and then, apparently thinking better of it, leaned back in his seat and eyed Mr. Gunnill.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said the latter, “that he’s been and upset the wrong man?”

Mr. Drill shook his head.  “That’s the puzzle,” he said, softly.

He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned.  Her father sat and exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now suffering the agonies of remorse.

He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside.  There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, and the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry face of one of Mr. Cooper’s brother-constables was thrust into the room.

Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination.  The body of the constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing before him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff.