The two policemen took us into a bare room, innocent of any furniture save a wooden form, a desk, a chair, some printed notices of rewards offered, and an array of handcuffs and revolvers on the mantelpiece. In the chair, with a big book in front of him on the desk, sat the inspector in charge. He was in his shirt-sleeves.
“A hot night,” he said, smiling, to the policeman.
I silently agreed.
It appeared that we were expected.
They took our full names, our addresses and occupations, and then the inspector read the warrant to us. Of course, it didn’t explain things in the least. I began to speak.
“Let me warn you,” said the inspector, “that anything you say now may be used against you at your trial.”
My trial!
“Can I write a note to Lord Trent?” I asked, nettled.
“Yes, if you will pay for a cab to take it.”
I threw down half-a-crown, and scribbled a line to my master, begging him to come at once.