“They must have their reasons,” said the young officer, who was getting more and more uncomfortable. He again tried to hurry up the detective lout. But they were enjoying nosing round among other people’s privacies.
“And what’ll happen to us if we don’t go, if we just stay?” said Harriet, being altogether a female.
“You’d better not try,” said the young man, grimly, so utterly confident in the absoluteness of the powers and the rightness he represented. And Somers would have liked to hit him across the mouth for that.
“Hold your tongue, Harriet,” he said, turning on her fiercely. “You’ve said enough now. Be still, and let them do what they like, since they’ve the power to do it.”
And Harriet was silent. And in the silence only the louts rummaging among the linen, and one looking into the bread-tin and into the tea-caddy. Somers watched them with a cold eye, and that queer slight lifting of his nose, rather like a dog when it shows disgust. And the officer again tried to hurry the louts, in his low tone of command, which had so little effect.
“Where do you intend to go?” said the officer to Somers.
“Oh, just to London,” said Somers, who did not feel communicative.
“I suppose they will send the things back that they take?” he said, indicating the louts.
“I should think so—anything that is not evidence.”
The louts were drawing to an end: it was nearly over.