CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH MR. SCARSDALE REAPS ANOTHER'S WHIRLWIND
Scarsdale was absolutely staggered by the word "arrest." Arrest! What nonsense! Who was this man who talked of arresting him, Harold Scarsdale, peaceably engaged in trying to find his wife and proceed on his honeymoon? The first sensations of surprise and incredulity were quickly followed, however, by a realisation of the horrible situation in which his own stupidity had placed him. In the eyes of the law he was not Harold Scarsdale, but Richard Allingford, and he shuddered to think with what crime he might be charged; for, from what he had learned in the last half-hour, he could not doubt that he was posing as one of the most abandoned characters that had ever visited the town of Winchester.
A person who consorted with horse-thieves, cheated at cards, and thought nothing of shooting friends who were not thirsty, would surely be satisfied with no ordinary crime. Of what was he accused? He hardly dared to ask. And how was he to get out of this dreadful dilemma? His reflections, however, were cut short by the arrival of a burly policeman, in answer to his captor's whistle. The little man at once addressed the newcomer, quite ignoring Scarsdale.
"Here's your man Allingford; not a doubt of it," he said.
"Got your warrant?" inquired the policeman, laying a detaining hand on the prisoner's shoulder.
"Here it is," replied the first speaker, producing a paper, which the officer glanced at and returned, saying at the same time to Scarsdale:
"Now, then, come along o' me, and don't make no resistance if you knows what's good for you."
"I do not intend to offer any resistance," replied that gentleman, and turning to the little man he asked: "By what right do you arrest me, and on what charge?"