She hesitated, and her hesitation and failure to characterise her caller were more stinging than any spoken words could have been. "Will you follow me?" she went on, loftily, and she swept from the room.
H. Robinson thought it better to obey her, and with a furious backward glance at the chief of police, who was snickering openly, he clumsily endeavoured to keep off the train of her gown as she ushered him into the dining-room.
"You had better get yourself something to drink," she said, waving him toward the sideboard.
He laid his hand on a silver tankard, and his small eyes rolled menacingly at her over the glass he raised to his lips.
"Where is Lancaster?" he ejaculated, as he set it down.
"You are very foolish to mention names."
He with difficulty withdrew a paper tightly wedged in his pocket. "I'm at the end of my patience,—it's only out of respect to the family we come quietly like this. Where is our prisoner?"
"Not here."
"He's in this house, or mighty near it. He might have been nabbed this morning if it hadn't been for that blatherskite in there. He come on the train. He ain't left. You've got to give him up. Two minutes to decide. I've got a patrolman outside. It won't take the three of us long to go over this house. You can't resist law, young woman."
"Do you really expect that Mr. Lancaster is in this house?"