I AM DETAINED
I was the "'im" referred to evidently.
Our inspector buttoned up his blue overcoat.
"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to walk down with us to the station, Mr. . . . er—Anstruther," he said; "we can have a little talk down there and straighten things out a bit."
His subterfuge did not in the least deceive me.
"Do I understand," I asked, "that you propose to detain me?"
The inspector raised his shoulders perplexedly, and his brother smiled a fat smile over his shoulder.
"That'll depend how you explain matters to our chief," he said deprecatingly; "at any rate we'd better get along."
This was a hint I could not disregard. He led the way up the staircase, and his stout brother, through force of habit, closed in behind, far too close to be pleasant, owing to the diffused aroma of a mixture of various brands of inferior whisky, arising from his hard breathing as he ascended the stairs. We walked two and two down Monmouth Street, I with the inspector, the doctor and the London detective improving their acquaintance in the rear.
Two streets off we dropped the officer of the Z Division, who betook himself once more to the "Compasses" to continue his "fifty up" with his friend the landlord, and the doctor joined us. I had the pleasure of listening to his conversation with the inspector, conducted across me, without having the pleasure of being included in it.