She spoke archly, with humour; but now there was no answering humour in the features of Mr. Hurley, who seemed to be a changed man, to be indeed no longer even an Irishman. And Audrey grew afraid. Did he, after all, know of her share in the Blue City enterprise? She had long since persuaded herself that the police had absolutely failed to connect her with that affair, but now uncertainty was born in her mind.
“I must search the house,” said the detective.
“What for?”
“I have to arrest a woman named Jane Foley,” answered Mr. Hurley, adding somewhat grimly: “The name will be known to ye, I’m thinking.... And I have reason to believe that she is now concealed on these premises.”
The directness of the blow was terrific. It was almost worse than the blow itself. And Audrey now believed everything that she had ever heard or read about the miraculous ingenuity of detectives. Still, she did not regard herself as beaten, and the thought of the yacht lying close by gave her a dim feeling of security. If she could only procure delay!...
“I’m not going to let you search my house,” she said angrily. “I never heard of such a thing! You’ve got no right to search my house.”
“Oh yes, I have!” Mr. Hurley insisted.
“Well, let me see your paper—I don’t know what you call it. But I know you can’t do anything-without a paper. Otherwise any bright young-man might walk into my house and tell me he meant to search it. Keeble, I’m really surprised at you.”
Inspector Keeble blushed.
“I’m very sorry, miss,” said he contritely. “But the law’s the law. Show the lady your search-warrant, Mr. Hurley.” His voice resembled himself.