They were all talking at once, in that quick interested way that makes you certain something unusual has happened.
He could not hear exactly what they were saying, but he caught the words: 'No.' 'Of course I've asked.' 'Police.' 'Telegram.' 'Yes, of course.' 'Better make quite sure.' Then every one began speaking all at once, and you could not hear anything that anybody said.

Philip was too busy keeping behind the buttress to see who they were who were talking.

He was glad _something_ had happened.
'Now I shall have something to think about besides the nurse and my beautiful city that she has pulled down.' But what was it that had happened?
He hoped nobody was hurt--or had done anything wrong.

The word police had always made him uncomfortable ever since he had seen a boy no bigger than himself pulled along the road by a very large policeman.

The boy had stolen a loaf, Philip was told.
Philip could never forget that boy's face; he always thought of it in church when it said 'prisoners and captives,' and still more when it said 'desolate and oppressed.' 'I do hope it's not _that_,' he said.
And slowly he got himself to leave the shelter of the red-brick buttress and to follow to the house those voices and those footsteps that had gone by him.
He followed the sound of them to the kitchen.