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.

“Have you seen these afore?” he inquired, in a terrible voice.

“No,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise.  “What are they?”

“I’ll tell you what they are,” said Police-constable Jenkins, ferociously; “they’re my helmet and truncheon.  You’ve been spoiling His Majesty’s property, and you’ll be locked up.”

“Yours?” said the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“I lent ’em to young Sims, just for a joke,” said the constable.  “I felt all along I was doing a silly thing.”

“It’s no joke,” said Mr. Gunnill, severely.  “I’ll tell young Herbert what I think of him trying to deceive me like that.”

“Never mind about deceiving,” interrupted the constable.  “What are you going to do about it?”

“What are you?” inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily.  “It seems to me it’s between you and him; you’ll very likely be dismissed from the force, and all through trying to deceive.  I wash my hands of it.”

“You’d no business to lend it,” said Drill, interrupting the constable’s indignant retort; “especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it from Cooper.  It’s a roundabout sort of thing, but you can’t tell of Mr. Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself.”

“I shall have to put up with that,” said the constable, desperately; “it’s got to be explained.  It’s my day-helmet, too, and the night one’s as shabby as can be.  Twenty years in the force and never a mark against my name till now.”

“If you’d only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much,” said Mr. Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, “I might be able to help you, p’r’aps.”

“How?” inquired the constable.

“Help him if you can, Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; “we ought all to help others when we get a chance.”

Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.

He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully.  It was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to push it into shape.  He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out of a concertina.  The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number.

“Why don’t you mend it?” he inquired, at last.

“Mend it?” shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins.  “Why don’t you?”

“I think I could,” said Mr. Drill, slowly; “give me half an hour in the kitchen and I’ll try.”

“Have as long as you like,” said Mr. Gunnill.