“Spectators, I think. It was more like a football crowd than a demonstration.”
“What the devil’s a crowd doing here?,” he asked with the first note of anxiety that I had heard in his voice. “There’s nothing to see, except my office. . . . Hold on a minute while I find the key. I’m going to take you in the back way.”
As we halted, I observed that the footway had brought us to a high brick wall with a wooden door in the middle. O’Rane was fitting the key into the lock when the door opened from the inside and a constable flashed his bull’s-eye into our faces.
“Now then, what are you up to?,” he demanded truculently.
“This is my office,” O’Rane answered.
“Sorry, sir. My orders are not to let any one in.”
“But you can’t keep me out of my own house. Where’s the inspector?”
The constable levelled the beam of his lamp on us again, this time with marked indecision. O’Rane’s voice had a ring of authority; and the key which he held was superficial evidence of good faith.
“Are you Mr. O’Rane, sir?,” asked the constable. “The inspector’s been trying to get hold of you. Maybe . . . you haven’t heard, sir?”
“Haven’t heard what?”