“At whose instance has the warrant been issued?” I asked.
“The Marquis of Cockfosters.”
My suspicions were only too well confirmed.
I did not speak a word to Susan Berry. I could not. I merely looked at her.
“You’ll come quietly to the station?” the policeman said.
“Certainly,” I replied. “As for us, the matter can soon be cleared up. I am Lord Trent’s valet, No. 441, Eaton Square, and he must be sent for.”
“Oh, must he!” the constable jeered. “Come on. Perhaps you’d prefer a cab.”
A four-wheeler was passing. I myself hailed the sleepy cabman, and we all three got in. The policeman prudently took the bag from Susan’s nerveless hands. None of us spoke. I was too depressed, Susan was probably too ashamed, and the constable was no doubt too bored.
After a brief drive we drew up. Another policeman opened the door of the cab, and over the open portal of the building in front of us I saw the familiar blue lamp, with the legend “Metropolitan Police” in white letters. The two policemen carefully watched us as we alighted, and escorted us up the steps into the station. Happily, there was no one about; my humiliation was abject enough without that.
Charles Saunders a prisoner in a police station! I could scarcely credit my senses. One becomes used to a police station—in the newspapers; but to be inside one—that is different, widely different.