And Guy, turning pale, answered without flinching—
“Yes, my name’s Guy Waring.”
“Then you’re my prisoner,” the man said, in a very firm voice. “I’m an inspector of constabulary.”
“On what charge?” Guy exclaimed, half taken aback at this promptitude.
“I have a warrant against you, sir,” the inspector answered, “as you are no doubt aware, for the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt, on the 17th of August, year before last, at Mambury, in Devonshire.”
The word’s fell upon Guy’s ears with all the suddenness and crushing force of an unexpected thunderbolt.
“Wilful murder,” he cried, taken aback by the charge. “Wilful murder of Montague Nevitt at Mambury! Oh no, you can’t mean that! Montague Nevitt dead! Montague Nevitt murdered! And at Mambury, too! There MUST be some mistake somewhere.”
“No, there’s no mistake at all, this time,” the inspector said quietly, slipping a pair of handcuffs unobtrusively into his pocket as he spoke. “If you come along with me without any unnecessary noise, we won’t trouble to iron you. But you’d better say as little as possible about the charge just now, for whatever you say may be used in evidence at the trial against you.”
Guy turned to Cyril with an appealing look. “Cyril,” he, cried, “what does all this mean? Is Nevitt dead? It’s the very first word I’ve ever heard about it.”
Cyril’s heart gave a bound of wild relief at those words. The moment Guy said it his brother knew he spoke the simple truth.