“Connor lives to fight another day,” he said quietly.
The policemen who attended him were busy with the other occupants of the room.
“Bit of a field-day for you, Mr. Angel,” said the thin-faced Lamby pleasantly. “Thought you was goin’ to let us off?”
“Jumping at conclusions hastily is a habit to be deplored,” said Angel sententiously. Then he saw the panic-stricken Mr. Lane.
“Hullo, what’s this?” he demanded.
Mr. Lane had at that moment the inspiration of his life. Since he was by fortuitous circumstances involved in this matter, and since it could make very little difference one way or the other what he said, he seized the fame that lay to his hand.
“I am one of the ‘Borough Lot,’” he said, and was led out proud and handcuffed with the knowledge that he had established beyond dispute his title to consideration as a desperate criminal.
Mr. Spedding was a man who thought quickly. Ideas and plans came to him as dross and diamonds come to the man at the sorting table, and he had the faculty of selection. He saw the police system of England as only the police themselves saw it, and he had an open mind upon Angel’s action. It was within the bounds of possibility that Angel had acted with full authority; it was equally possible that Angel was bluffing.
Mr. Spedding had two courses before him, and they were both desperate; but he must be sure in how, so far, his immediate liberty depended upon the whim of a deputy-assistant-commissioner of police.