"A bottle of champagne and a glass at once," I commanded, and he sped. "And now, Miss Joy, if you please, the constable and I will do the talking. What's your business?"
"Prisoner wants bail," answered the policeman.
"Name?"
"George Anthony Richardson."
"Yes, yes—but I mean the prisoner's name."
"That's what I'm telling you. 'George Anthony Richardson, four-nought-two, Cromwell Road'—that's the name on the sheet, and I heard him give it myself."
"And I thought, of course, it must be you," put in Clara; "and I wondered what dreadful thing could have happened—until Horrex appeared and told me you were safe, and Herbert too—"
"I think," said I, going to the door again and taking the tray from Horrex, "that you were not to talk. Drink this, please."
She took the glass, but with a rebellious face. "Oh, if you take that tone with me—"
"I do. And now," I turned to the constable, "what name did he give for his surety?"