“Pardon me, Mr. Carstairs,” said one of his visitors, a sharp-eyed, clean-cut man of forty, “but, as a matter of fact, our business here is really with Mrs. Carstairs. Will you be good enough to ask her to step into this room?”
His companion had closed the door, and both remained standing.
“I assure you she knows as little as I do about this distressing affair. My niece is very ill. She cannot leave her. You must allow me,—for the present, at least,—to speak for Mrs. Carstairs.”
“Deeply as I regret it, Mr. Carstairs, I must insist that your wife—”
“You heard what I said, didn't you?” demanded Carstairs coldly. Two vivid red blotches shot into his cheeks.
The two men looked at each other. Then the spokesman gave a significant jerk of his head. His companion opened the door and stepped quickly into the hall. As the door closed, the one who remained drew nearer to Carstairs.
“In the first place, Mr. Carstairs, you cannot speak for your wife. I am not here to make inquiries, sir, but to escort her to the offices of the United States Attorney, who will—”
Carstairs started up from his chair. “What infernal nonsense is this?”
“I am afraid it isn't nonsense,” said the other quietly. “My instructions,—my orders, I may say,—are to confront Mrs. Carstairs with certain charges, in your presence, by the way,—and to remain in this apartment until further orders. There is no alternative.”
“Charges?” gasped Davenport Carstairs, incredulously. “What do you mean? What charges have been brought against us?”