police-sergeant at the corner of Acacia Terrace, he introduced himself and getting into conversation asked him if he knew anything of the tenants of Number 59.
"Folks with the queer name?" answered the sergeant. "Patello? Yes, know 'em well enough! Father, mother, three daughters. Father's a quiet old chap who toddles off to the City of a morning and toddles back again of an evening—harmless. Girls play the piano all day—that sort!"
"Do you know the mother by sight?" asked Wedgwood.
"Well enough! Tall, thin woman. Looks as if she bossed the lot of 'em," said the sergeant. "You know the sort—wears the breeches, I should say!"
"It's taxing your memory," observed Wedgwood, "but have you ever seen Mrs. Patello in a heavy fur coat that came down to her ankles?"
"I have!" replied the sergeant, readily. "Saw her in it only last week, when that cold snap was on! Yes!"
Wedgwood left the deserts of Tooting with a distinct impression and a profound belief. The impression was that Mr. Patello was not taken into the confidence of Mrs. Patello and Mrs. Clagne; the belief was that Mrs. Patello
