Prudence’s eyes went past him, and rested inquiringly on the two soberly clad individuals who had entered the room. Leisurely she crossed one booted leg over the other; inwardly she was thinking fast, but no signs of it appeared in her face.
She knew what these visitors had come for; it did not need for them to show her the warrant they held. She looked at it with raised brows, and then at the two men. She seemed to be faintly amused, and slightly at a loss. “What a’ God’s name is all this?” she asked.
“Warrant for arrest,” said one of the men succinctly. “Alleged murder of Gregory Markham, Esquire, of Poynter Street, Number Five.”
The grey eyes widened in surprise, and travelled on to the second man, who seemed apologetic. “Dooty!” he said, and stared at the ceiling, and coughed.
Prudence wondered where John was. Obviously she was to be taken to town under arrest, and something must be done to liberate her, and that speedily. Egad, who would have thought it? This bade fair to mean her unmasking, and then what? Lord, but the old gentleman had bungled this! Or had he? To be honest, her presence at the duel had not been a part of his plan. Nor, if one thought of it had he planned the bringing of Miss Letty back to town. Well, this was what came of deviating from his orders by so much as a hair’s breadth. And what to do now? If John had seen these harbingers of disaster, he would be off to my lord at once, and — faith, one had trust in the old gentleman!
“Am I to understand I’m supposed to have killed Mr Markham?” she inquired.
The leader of the two pointed silently to the warrant. It was not for him to elucidate these mysteries.
“Good God!” said Prudence. “Well, what do we do now, gentlemen?”
“If you’ll send for your hat and coat, sir, we’ll be off to London,” said the spokesman.
“Must do our dooty!” said his fellow hoarsely. “ However unpleasant!”