"I wish to see Mr. Shepworth," argued Prelice vexedly.
"It's against orders, my lord."
"Is he within?"
"Yes, my lord, but he isn't allowed to see anyone."
"Will you take a note in from me?"
"No, my lord. I can't do that."
"Can I see Inspector Bruge?"
"He is at the police station, my lord."
Prelice stamped with vexation at the obstacles placed in his way. He did his best to argue this official machine into something resembling reasonable humanity, but without success. Shepworth, he learned, was to be taken to prison later in the day, and the constable hinted that, since the charge was so serious, there would be no chance of the barrister being let out on bail. There was no other course open but to see Inspector Bruge, so Prelice drove to the Kensington Police Station, only to find that the man he wished to see had gone to Scotland Yard, presumably about the case.
Apparently there was nothing to be done at the moment in connection with this new trouble, so Prelice was half minded to repair to the New Bailey, and listen to the further progress of the charge against Miss Chent. Now that Agstone was dead, he did not think that she would be convicted. Also, the repetition of the circumstances of the Hythe crime in Alexander Mansions would assuredly strengthen her position, since the jury would now be compelled to believe her story of the stupefying smoke, which formerly had been regarded as absurd. And it was when the thought of the smoke entered his mind that Prelice recollected that Dr. Horace lived in the neighbourhood. He therefore walked to Rutland Square, and asked at Number Twenty for his former fellow-traveller. Chance stood the young man's friend, for the doctor was within, and saw him at once.