“The warrant is issued at the instance of the Postmaster-General—”
“Ah! . . . I see! I suppose—”
“Miss Carstairs. I warn you again—”
“Does all this mean that I have got to go with you—now—to the police office?” To herself she was saying: “Don’t be a coward! You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
“It is my duty to take you there,” the man answered, “and I hope you will not make it harder for me than you can help.”
His respectful tone stayed the sinking of her heart.
“Can’t I send a message to a friend?” she asked.
“You might leave a short note. I—I think,” he said almost nervously, “I can allow you five minutes—not more—to write it and put a few things together.” He wiped his forehead, though the window was open and the room cool. “Of course,” he went on quickly, noticing her look of dismay, “you may not be detained long. No doubt your friends will arrange for bail. But now—please—I must ask you to make haste.”
“Will you tell me—” she began.
“I can answer no more questions.”