The crowd, captivated but like most crowds not knowing what the whole thing was about, growled encouragingly. Sir Magnus beamed at them like a conductor beaming at an orchestra at the end of a particularly difficult passage of music, and then turned to Adrian.

“My boy,” he said, “I shall personally accompany you to the police stations and if they arrest you and charge you, if indeed they are so inhuman and so callous as to arrest you and charge you, I, Sir Magnus Ramping Fumitory, will defend you.”

“You are very kind,” said Adrian, who was now so bewildered that he was not sure whether he was under arrest or not.

“Well, if you will just come along with me,” said the constable. “If nothing else, we will be able to give you a hot cup of tea at the station.”

“Thank you,” said Adrian, who was frozen to the marrow and felt that it was even worth being arrested in order to have a hot drink.

“Don’t say a word,” said Sir Magnus, “until we get to the station and find out what their paltry charges are.”

So Adrian seized Rosy’s ear once more, and with Sir Magnus strutting pigeon-toed on one side, and the constable lumbering on the other, and the crowd shuffling and whispering following behind, they made their way to the police station.

When they arrived they induced Rosy, with a certain amount of difficulty and with the aid of a bribe of several loaves of bread, to stand in the station yard. Inside the dour red-brick police station, the station sergeant, with a rich, peony-coloured face and an impressive moustache, peered at Adrian like a good-natured walrus.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “You’re name is Adrian Rookwhistle?”

“Yes,” said Adrian.

“And I wouldn’t admit anything more than your name,” hissed Sir Magnus.

“Well, sir,” said the sergeant, “we’ve several charges against you, so I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial.”

He paused and stared at Adrian portentously. “The charges are as follows. That you did on 20th April in the County of Brockelberry cause a public nuisance in the meadow, alongside the Monkspepper Road there situate by releasing a large wild animal, and furthermore that you allowed it to commit grievous bodily harm to Hubert Darcey, Master of the Monkspepper Hunt and that on the night of 5th June you did commit a public nuisance by allowing a large wild animal loose in a public place, to wit the Alhambra Theatre and allowed it to commit grievous bodily harm to Mr. Emanuel S. Clattercup, the theatre manager.” The sergeant paused, looked down at his notes and then looked up at Adrian and beamed affably.

“That seems to be all for the moment, sir,” he said.

“Ridiculous trumped-up charges,” said Sir Magnus, taking off his top hat and banging it on the sergeant’s desk. “Don’t worry, my dear chap, I will soon have you free of this noxious web which these bovine illiterates are endeavouring to weave around you and that noble creature of yours.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said the sergeant, unmoved by Sir Magnus’s oratory, “that I shall have to detain you in custody so that you can appear before the magistrates tomorrow morning.”

“Well, that’s all very well,” protested Adrian, “but what about Rosy?”

“Your elephant, sir?” enquired the sergeant “Umm, that does present a bit of a problem. You see our cells are somewhat on the small side.”

“Well, she’d be all right out in the yard,” said Adrian, “if she was given something to eat.”

“I will attend to that, sir,” said the sergeant. He picked up a clean piece of paper, licked his pencil and looked at Adrian interrogatively. “Now, what does she eat, sir?”

“Well,” said Adrian, “if you get half a sack of mangolds or turnips (but she prefers mangolds), a bale of hay, half a sack of apples, half a sack of carrots, half a sack of bread . . .”

The station sergeant’s face grew grim.

“You wouldn’t by any chance be gammoning me?”

“No, no,” said Adrian earnestly. “Really, she’s got a colossal appetite.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, “I’ll see what I can, do, sir. Now, I’d be glad if you would just turn out your pockets, sir, and check the contents with me. They’ll all be returned to you in due course.”

Adrian emptied his pockets and the station sergeant put all his possessions in a large brown envelope and locked it away in a cabinet.

“Now, sir,” he said, sounding exactly like the hall porter at a sumptuous hotel, “if you’ll just come this way, I’ll show you your accommodation.”

Sir Magnus stretched out his hand to Adrian.

“Don’t worry, my boy,” he said. “I shall be here first thing in the morning to make sure that you get fair play. Just look upon this as an unpleasant—but rapidly passing—dream.”

“It’s beginning to feel like it,” said Adrian gloomily.

He followed the sergeant down a brick-lined passage way until they came to the doorways of several tiny cells, most of which, judging by the noises and the all-pervading smell of alcohol, contained people whom Rosy would have been honoured to number among her friends. The sergeant unlocked one of the cell doors and ushered Adrian into a tiny whitewashed room with a wooden bunk, a small chest of drawers and, perched on top of it, rather incongruously, a large china bowl and ewer decorated in pink and blue flowers.

“Here we are, sir,” said the sergeant. “Now you get a good night’s rest and we’ll see you in the morning.”

He closed the door and the bolt clicked into place. Slowly Adrian peeled off his sodden clothes, climbed into the hard, narrow bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. He was convinced that he was going to get at least a year’s penal servitude for his crimes, but strangely enough this didn’t worry him. What did worry him was what was going to happen to Rosy, coupled with the fact that if he was imprisoned for a year, it would be a year before he would see Samantha again. By which time, of course, she might have moved and he would not be able to trace her. Or, worse still, might have married some uncouth ruffian who would not appreciate her finer points.

Alone in his little cell, Adrian could visualise it all so clearly that he broke out in a cold sweat. Rosy being condemned to death by the magistrates, the clatter of boots as the army platoon detailed to carry out the sentence marched into the prison yard, the crackle of guns, the great thud as Rosy’s body hit the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen wounds, and meanwhile Samantha irretrievably married to a great, coarse, hairy plough-boy who would beat her regularly every Saturday night so that, if and when Adrian ever discovered her again, she would be a gaunt shadow of her former self, and even the gold flecks in her eyes would have ceased to glitter. With Adrian’s fertile imagination at work, it was not altogether surprising that he got little sleep that night.

In the morning a large constable made his appearance carrying a mug of tea and a hunk of black bread, and Adrian discovered that not only was he hungry, but his throat was so parched he could only talk in a croaking whisper.

“How’s Rosy?” he asked the constable.

“Don’t you go fretting about her, sir,” said the constable comfortably. “She can look after herself, that elephant can. The station sergeant’s nearly gone mad keeping up with her appetite. It’s a wonderful beast, sir.”

“In some ways I suppose she is,” said Adrian.

“You seem to have got up to some tricks with her,” said the constable.

“Yes,” said Adrian shortly, not wishing to have to tell his story all over again. “What time do we go to the magistrates’ court?”

“Ten o’clock, sir,” said the constable.

“I wonder,” said Adrian, “if you could possibly lend me a razor? Mine got left behind in the rush.”

“Surely, sir,” said the constable, and went out, locking the door behind him. Presently he reappeared with a large razor, and stayed there watching while Adrian washed and shaved, then he retrieved the razor and disappeared.