The inspector in reply merely asked me for my name and address.
Before meeting Miss Maitland I had cherished the hope that my identity would not be disclosed, but now I had no further reason for desiring to conceal it, I gave both at once.
The inspector quietly made a note of them, while another man in plain clothes, who was standing gazing out of the window, suddenly turned on me with the inquiry—
"How comes it, Mr. Sutgrove, that living at St. Albans you should choose to spend the night at a little inn at King's Langley?"
"I suppose I am at liberty to sleep where I like?" I retorted.
"Perfectly so," replied the stranger. "You will have no difficulty, I presume, in proving your identity?"
"Not the slightest," I said. "In fact I have already wired to a friend of mine—Mr. Winter, of Hailscombe, St. Albans—to come here for the purpose."
"I know Mr. Winter very well," said the inspector.
The stranger looked at me keenly, and when his scrutiny was completed he fell to whistling a bar of Chopin's Marche Funèbre. Then he turned to his colleague in uniform.
"It's no go," he said. "This is not our man." Again he turned to me. "I am Inspector Forrest of Scotland Yard, detailed for special duty in connection with this Motor Pirate affair. Unfortunately I did not reach Watford until after arrangements had been made to bring you here, or—— I hope you will not take it amiss if we detain you until Mr. Winter's arrival."