“No. That’s what’s interesting,” said Reggie, and turned away.
At the door and in the drive there was some congested traffic. Mr. Ford’s big car still waited. Reggie’s humbler car had come back with his camera. The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell took up more room. And yet another taxi was trying to get to the steps.
“Who’s this, Superintendent?”
“I dare say it’ll be for Miss Weston.”
“Taking her to Holloway at once? Well, well. I dare say it’s all for the best.”
But Miss Weston was not to go without a noise. Mr. Ford saw to that. At the head of the stairs he conducted an altercation with Inspector Mordan in which defiance, abuse, and profane swearing were his chief arguments. It was beastly stupid and it was damned impudence to arrest Miss Weston, and it was also beastly impudence and damned stupid, and so forth. In the midst of which the wretched girl was shepherded by two detectives downstairs.
“My God, you might as well arrest me!” Mr. Ford cried, in final desperation.
“Perhaps I will,” said the Inspector heavily, and glowered at him.
Mr. Ford paled and drew back.
On the stairs below Miss Weston stopped and turned. “Oh, Edmund, don’t,” she said. “They can’t hurt me. You know they can’t.”