Carshaw’s tone was indifferent. Just then he was aware only of a very definite resentment. His mother would be waiting for dinner, and alarmed, like all mothers who own motoring sons. The detective looked surprised, but made his point, for all that.
“I suppose you’ll be meeting that very charming young lady again one of these days,” he said.
“I? Why? Most unlikely.”
“Not so. Do you floor every man you see annoying a woman in the streets?”
“Well—er—”
“Just so. Winifred interested you. She interests me. I mean to keep an eye on her, a friendly eye. If you and she come together again, let me know.”
“Really—”
“No wonder you are ready with a punch. You won’t let a man speak. Listen, now. The patrolman held you and Fowle because he had orders to arrest, on any pretext or none, any one who seemed to have the remotest connection with the house in One Hundred and Twelfth Street, where Winifred Bartlett lives with her aunt. You’ve read of the Yacht Mystery and the lassoing of Ronald Tower?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Tower are my close friends.”
“Exactly. Now, Rachel Craik, Winifred’s aunt, was released from custody an hour ago. She would have been charged with complicity in the supposed murder of Tower. I say ‘supposed’ because there was no murder. Mr. Tower has returned home, safe and sound—”