“The Reverend Mr. Folyat?”
“My name,” answered Francis. “Anything wrong?”
“We’ve got a gentleman at the station; gave us your name for bail, Mr. Folyat.”
“A gentleman?”
“Yessir. Drunk and obscene language.”
“Have a drink, constable?” said Serge.
“Well, sir . . .”
They went into the study. The constable was refreshed, and told how an old man in a rusty green coat and a battered silk hat had been brought into the station and for many hours had refused to give his name or any information about himself. He was not known to the police. The arrest took place early in the afternoon. At eleven o’clock he had asked for bail, referred the police to Mr. Folyat and given his name, but no address. His name was James Lawrie.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Francis. “Mr. Lawrie! Dear me! Poor gentleman. . . . Will you come with me, Serge?”
They went out as quietly as they could. With his hand on the knob of the front door Serge heard his mother calling from the landing: