“You are arrested. That’s what it means. Dress and come with us, unless you want to go as you are;” and the fellow gave point to his words by stripping off the bedclothes.
A curious sequel, this, to Volheno’s letter.
CHAPTER IX
THE INTERROGATION
DIGNITY in a nightshirt is impossible; so I rolled off the bed and dressed myself quickly.
Why I should be arrested I could not imagine, unless it was in some way the outcome of that row in the streets. Even if that were so, the thing could not be serious. I had been mistaken for one of the mob and nearly clubbed by a policeman; but it was scarcely likely I should be punished because he had missed his aim. Probably some fool or other had blundered, and the whole thing was just a mistake.
I was disposed to smile at it, therefore. I might lose half a night’s sleep; but that was no great matter; and as a recompense I should have an experience at first hand of police methods under a dictator.
“What am I supposed to have done?” I asked the man who had awakened me.
“Wait and see.” He jerked the words out with scowling gruffness.
“In England when a man is arrested like this it’s usual to tell him the reason.”
“This isn’t England.”