It roused the policeman to a frenzy of direct action. In a calmer moment he might have been quelled by the protruding green-grey eyes that were looking at him with such quiet austerity: but now they had no terrors for him.
"You're a deputy," he repeated. "You know what that means, don't you, dumb-bell? I'm an officer of the Law and I appoint you my deputy."
"I have no desire to be a deputy," said the other with the cold sub-tinkle in his voice which had once made the younger son of a marquess resign from his clubs and go to Uganda.
It was wasted on Officer Garroway. The man was berserk.
"That's all right what you desire and don't desire. I've made you a deputy, and you'll be one or go up the river for resisting an officer of the Law, besides getting a dot over the bean with this stick that'll make you wish you hadn't. Now then?"
"The position being such as you have outlined," said the butler with dignity, "I have no alternative but to comply with your wishes."
"What's your name?"
"Rupert Anthony Ferris."
"Where do you live?"
"I am in the employment of Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington, at present residing at Hempstead, Long Island."