There were not many remarks exchanged during our drive to Bow Street. I saw it was no use questioning the Inspector any further, and, as you may imagine, I had quite enough to think about without wasting my energies in making conversation. The whole thing had happened so unexpectedly and so quietly that I was only just beginning to grasp it as an accomplished fact.
There seemed to be little doubt that Prado must have met his death at the hands of the missing Da Costa. That the rest of the gang were quite innocent in the matter I had fairly convincing evidence. Where and when the tragedy had been played out I was quite unable to guess, and it was equally puzzling to know how the police had discovered the secret of my identity. Maurice's hurried departure from Ashton was doubtless connected with this, and I could understand now why he had looked at me with that strange expression of half-incredulous triumph when he read the wire.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I was not particularly upset. Indeed, my principal sensation, apart from an ardent desire to get to bed as soon as possible, was one of genuine relief to feel that the business was over and done with. Fond as I am of the strenuous life, I had had just about enough of Mr. Stuart Northcote. There was a strange pleasure in being Jack Burton again, even with a charge of murder hanging over my head.
My musings were cut short by the cab pulling up outside Bow Street. The Inspector got out first, and I followed, to the evident excitement of several midnight loafers, who peered at us from the safe distance of the opposite pavement.
We went straight up the steps and entered a long, brightly lit corridor. A policeman who was standing there favoured us with a keen glance of curiosity, and respectfully touched his helmet to my companion.
The latter opened a door on the right. "This way," he said.
It was an office, a big and very tidy room, with two roll-top desks, at one of which a grey-haired soldierly-looking man in plain clothes was seated, writing. He looked up as we entered, and I saw him start slightly as his eyes fell on me.
"It's Mr. John Burton," said my captor, with a pardonable touch of pride in his voice. Then he turned to me. "This is Inspector Curtis. He will read you the charge."
Inspector Curtis had quickly conquered his momentary emotions. "Where was the arrest effected?" he demanded sharply, studying me with considerable interest.
"At Park Lane," returned the other. "I was making inquiries, when Mr. Burton arrived in a car with a companion. I have placed the latter under observation. No resistance was offered."