He was scarcely a yard off, when Sinclair made an exclamation, and sprang forward. He laid his hand on the other’s shoulder and looked straight in his face. “Ah,” he said, “Lewis at last! I arrest you for the murder of Sir James Watson, and I warn you—but of course you know all about that.” The other made no movement of protest or resentment. Collins came forward smiling blandly.
“Steady, Sinclair, don’t let your professional zeal run away with you. You haven’t a warrant to start with, and you are mistaking your man.”
“What do you mean?” said Sinclair, turning to him.
“You are mistaking your man, that is all. Let me introduce you. This is Sir Ronald Watson, Baronet, Superintendent Sinclair.”
A look of blank astonishment was on Sinclair’s face, and he looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
“What on earth do you mean?” he said.
The other man turned to Collins, “Hast thou found me, oh mine enemy?” he said, with a smile, which belied his words.
“Come on,” said Collins; “let’s get indoors, it’s beastly out here.”
“So be it,” said the other.
They crossed the road where the mud was splashing, and entered the house. Once in the room, the stranger turned to Sinclair.