"I don't know," I answered. "That's for you to find out. As for me, I'm going to bed."
"Wait a minute," he said, detaining me, as I started for the door. "Who was t'at feller who told me to come here?"
"He was a reporter named Godfrey. He had nothing to do with it."
"But somebody must be arrested for t'is," and he looked at me in a way that was most suggestive.
"Well, you're not going to arrest me," I retorted.
"What's t'at on your hand?" he asked, and caught my wrist and held it to the light.
"It's blood," I said; "but it's my own," and then I was again suddenly conscious of my strange appearance, and realised how unaccountable my presence in this house must seem. "Oh, well," I said, "there's no use to waste time arguing about it. I suppose you're right in holding me. Go call your chief. I'll explain things to him."
"I can't leave you here," he protested. "T'e patrol box is at t'e corner."
"All right; I'll go with you," I agreed. "I don't want to escape," and I accompanied him to the box, and waited while he called up headquarters, and sent in a brief but highly-coloured version of the tragedy.
Then we walked back to the house together. As we approached it, I was startled to see a shadow flit across the kitchen blind.