“Now, then, what’s the trouble?” demanded the law, with gruff insistency.
“Nothing. A friend of mine met with a slight accident—that’s all,” said Carshaw.
“It’s—it’s—all right,” agreed Fowle thickly. Some glimmer of reason warned him that an exposé in the newspapers would cost him his job with Brown, Son & Brown. The policeman eyed the damaged nose. He grinned.
“If you care to take a wallop like that as a friendly tap it’s your affair, not mine,” he said. “Anyhow, beat it, both of you!”
Carshaw was not interested in Fowle or the policeman. He had been vouchsafed one expressive look by Winifred as she hurried away, and he watched the slim figure darting up half a dozen steps to a small brown-stone house, and opening the door with a latch-key. Oddly enough, the policeman’s attention was drawn by the girl’s movements. His air changed instantly.
“H’lo,” he said, evidently picking on Fowle as the doubtful one of these two. “This must be inquired into. What’s your name?”
“No matter. I make no charge.”
Fowle was turning away, but the policeman grabbed him.
“You come with me to the station-house,” he said determinedly. “An’ you, too,” he added jerking his head at Carshaw.
“Have you gone crazy with the heat?” inquired Carshaw.