CHAPTER XLVII.—ON THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
SOME minutes had passed before Harold had sufficiently recovered to be able to get upon his feet. He could now account for everything that had happened. His father must have been found dead under suspicious circumstances the previous day, and information had been conveyed to the county constabulary. The instinct of the constabulary being to connect all crime with tramps, and his own appearance, after his night of wandering, as well as the conditions under which he had been found, suggesting the tramp, he had naturally been arrested.
He knew that he could only suffer some inconvenience for an hour or so. But what would be the sufferings of Beatrice?
“The circumstances under which I am found are suspicious enough to justify my arrest,” he said to the mounted man. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son.”
“Gammon! but it’ll be took down,” said the constable with the truncheon.
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” cried the sergeant to his subordinate.
“I can, of course, account for every movement of mine, yesterday and the day before,” said Harold. “What hour is the crime supposed to have taken place? It must have been after four o’clock, or I should have received a telegram from my sister, Mrs. Lampson. I left London shortly before five last evening.”
“If you can prove that, you’re all right,” said the sergeant. “But you’ll have to give us your right name.”
“You’ll find it on the inside of my watch,” said Harold.
He slipped the watch from the swivel clasp and handed it to the sergeant.