“I don’t know, and I can’t tell you what I make of it.”
“You mean you won’t. You don’t want to tell me.”
“No, it’s not that. I do want to tell you but I can’t.”
“Where did you go before breakfast?”
“To the police station.”
“What for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I’m rather a poor sort of confederate then, I’m afraid, if you won’t let me know what you are doing.”
“You’re not a confederate, you’re a protector should the need rise. Honestly, I can’t help it, Mr. Jeffcock, it isn’t my doing. Johnny Allport is my superior officer and I was to tell you nothing except who I was, and that I might possibly require your help. And that was only because you caught us together.”
“I see, a sort of sop to keep me good.” I was feeling childishly hurt.