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"Going to be a hot day, I think," said the K.C. in his cheery forensic voice.

"It certainly 'as the smell of one, Mr. Corcoran, sir," Mrs. Ryley agreed.

"Quite so. Don't know what I shall do when I have to give up my morning visits, Sawby. Always look forward to my spells of duty."

"If you always had to get up in the middle of the night," the milkman observed, "you'd leave off looking forward to it."

"Hear, hear!" chuckled the postman. "Not that I don't enjoy a cup of coffee meself."

"It's in the winter you're a boon, Bill," said the police sergeant. "I reckon it was Vine Street, during the blitz, made your fortune."

Sawby, red-faced, blue-eyed, and wearing a moustache resembling a gnome's grotto, grinned appreciatively, clearing away empty cups and plunging them into the washing tub.

"Some o' them mornings was shockin', wasn't they, sergeant?" remarked Mrs. Ryley reflectively. "I won't never forget standin' at this 'ere counter one Wen'sday and wonderin' what 'ad become of my offices. Clean gone they was."