“Your own.”
“A warrant for my arrest!” I cried in dismay. “What do you mean? I have committed no offence.”
“Exactly. I have already proved that to my entire satisfaction, and that is the reason the warrant in my pocket will to-morrow be cancelled.”
“But why was it ever issued?” I demanded.
“Because certain suspicions attached themselves to you. Did it never occur to you that it was you yourself upon whom I was keeping observation on that evening we spent together at the Empire?”
“It did; but the suggestion seemed so preposterous that I cast it aside. Now, however, I see that the reason you took me to Scotland Yard was to show me two photographs in your book. One was a picture of myself, and the other that of a woman I loved—”
“You loved her—eh?” he interrupted.
“Yes. But why do you speak in that tone?” I inquired. “You seem to suggest that my affection was misdirected.”
“Pardon me,” he said politely. “I suggest nothing—nothing beyond the fact that it was an indiscretion, as was surely proved by later events.”
“Later events!” I echoed. “Then you know the truth, Grindlay! Tell me—tell me all, if you are my friend.”