Seated at a large official-looking table was a man in evening dress reading the letter from Volheno, the receipt of which had so puzzled me on my return from the Stella. To my intense surprise he rose and offered me his hand.
“I am sorry to have had to disturb you, Mr. Donnington, and am extremely obliged to you for having come so promptly,” he said with a courteous smile and an appearance of great cordiality.
This was too much for my gravity. I looked at him in bewilderment, and then laughed. “As a matter of fact your men didn’t give me any alternative.”
“I do not understand,” he replied glancing from me to the police, who looked rather sheepish.
“Well, I was arrested. These men got into my rooms—I don’t know how—hauled me out of bed, would tell me nothing, except that I was under arrest; and dragged me here. That’s why I came so promptly,” I said drily.
“What does this mean, you?” he thundered at the police, his eyes flaming his anger.
“I was only ordered to bring him here, and I brought him,” answered the man of few words, in a hang-dog, surly tone.
“By Heaven, it is infamous. Do you mean to tell me that you never delivered M. Volheno’s letter to this gentleman?”
“I had no letter.”
“You blockhead, you fool, you thing of wood, get out of the room. You’ll hear of this again, all of you. A set of clumsy mules without the brains of an idiot amongst you;” and he stormed away at them furiously.