“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. For that matter, my future be damned. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. She winked at him as he shut the door. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG.
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