Nevertheless, she did start when a bell in the distance purred suddenly. “Silly!” she called herself the next moment. It was just the hour for the postman, and probably he had a packet that would not go into the letter-box. She went at once to the door.
A thick-set man of middle age, heavily moustached, but not unpleasantly featured, in dark tweeds and bowler hat, said—
“You are Miss Kitty Carstairs.”
Before she could answer, he was standing beside her and the door was closed.
“I have something to say to you, Miss Carstairs,” he proceeded in a quiet voice. “I think you ought to sit down to hear it.”
For some seconds the girl was incapable of speech and action. But her mind was working, and it perceived that she gained no advantage by remaining in the confined space of the little passage. In silence she led the way to the sitting-room.
“Who are you and what do you want with me?” she managed to say, taking her stand with the table between them. She began to suspect that he was a messenger from Symington, but there was something “decent” about his face that reassured her.
His reply was certainly unexpected.
“I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest. I have to warn you that anything you may say now may be used against you later.”
Kitty went white, but it was with anger. “Who,” she demanded at last, “has dared to do such a thing? Who desires my arrest?”