"I do," replied the Inspector; "and you may as well hand it over to me without any fuss."
"I shall be delighted to do so," said Derrick, grimly.
He had not yet realized the full significance of the Inspector's first formal words; for the moment Derrick's mind was engrossed by the sardonic irony of Fate. Here it was again! There was something really monotonous in the way in which this peculiar phase of misfortune dogged him. Was he really going to be again charged with an offence he had not committed? He opened his lips to speak; to say where he had found the box; then he remembered the words "attempted murder," and instead of giving information—which the Inspector would certainly have received with incredulity—Derrick said quietly and with a sudden pallor,
"Did I understand you to charge me with attempted murder as well as robbery?"
"I did," responded the Inspector, sternly. "The attempted murder of the Marquess of Sutcombe."
Derrick did not start, made no exclamation, but the pallor of his face increased and he gave a little nod. If this box had been stolen, the man who had hidden it was, in all probability, the thief—and attempted murderer. Percy—the Marquess's own son! Confused and bewildered as he was, Derrick had sense enough left in him to feel that he must hold his tongue.
"All right," he said, very gravely. "I should like to say——"
"If you'll take my advice, you'll say nothing," broke in the Inspector, in an official manner. "You must know as well as I do that everything you say——"
"Quite so," said Derrick. "Where are you going to take me?"
"To the lock-up at Fleckfield," replied the Inspector, much relieved in his mind now that he saw his prisoner was not going to offer any resistance, give any trouble. "You're quite right to take it quietly. As I said, we're surrounded by my men. What's this?"