For a minute Steadman thought that the man whose arm the inspector was now holding firmly was about to collapse. His ruddy colour had faded and he seemed to shrink visibly. But he rallied with a marvellous effort of self-control.
“You are making some strange mistake,” he said coolly. “Samuel Horsingforth is my name. Of the others you mention I know nothing. I have been backwards and forwards several times on this line and more than one of the officers and stewards know me, and can vouch for my good faith.”
The inspector's grip did not relax.
“No use, Thompson, the game is up,” he said confidently. “You have made yourself a clever alias, I admit; but it is no use trying to go on with it now. You don't want any disturbance here.”
Horsingforth, alias Thompson, made no further resistance. He allowed the inspector to lead him down the gangway and down to the quay to Steadman's car. Only when the inspector opened the door did he hold back.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Town,” the inspector answered laconically. “You will be able to consult a solicitor when you get there—if you want to,” he added.
Thompson said no more. He seated himself by Steadman, the inspector opposite.
As they started, another car, which had quietly followed the first from Scotland Yard, at a sign from the inspector fell in behind.
Until they had left Southampton and its environs far behind none of the three men spoke, then Thompson, who had been sitting apparently in a species of stupor, roused himself.