He opened a huge ledger, tried if his pen would make a hair stroke on a piece of paper, and said, laconically:
"Name?"
No answer from the prisoner, followed by emphatic demands from inspector and constable, the former volunteering the information that to refuse your name and address was in itself an offense against the law.
Philip's sang-froid was coming to his aid. The horror of his passage through the gaping mob had cauterized all other sentiments, and he now saw that if he would preserve his incognito he must adopt a ruse.
"Philip Morland," he said, doggedly, when the inspector asked him his name for the last time before recording a definite refusal.
"Philip Morland!" It sounded curiously familiar in his ears. His mother was a Miss Morland prior to her marriage, but he had not noticed the odd coincidence that he should have been christened after the "Sir Philip" of the packet of letters so fortunately left behind that morning.
"Address?"
"Park Lane."
The inspector began to write before the absurdity of the reply dawned on him. He stopped.
"Is your mother a caretaker there, or your father employed in a mews?"