The door opened. First to appear was a breezy young man who could not possibly have been other than a press-agent—a very happy press-agent. Next came a policeman; a mounted policeman, evidently, from his natty white cap and his puttees. Following were half a dozen newspaper men.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mann,” said the press-agent, “but they're holding the woman, and the officer wants to know if you're going to prefer charges.”
“I'm not going to prefer charges against anybody,” said Peter with quiet dignity. And then added: “What woman?”
The policeman looked straight at him. “The young woman that stabbed you,” he said.
Peter made a weak gesture. His dignity was impenetrable.
“I really don't know yet what it was,” he said. “It happened so quickly.”
The press-agent gave the officer a triumphant look, as if to say: “There, you see!”
“Do you think you could identify her?” This from the officer.
“No,” said Peter. “I'm afraid I couldn't. My thoughts were anywhere but there.”
They went away then. The reporters hung eagerly on the sill, but the press-agent hustled them out.