“Harold Dobson,” I replied, uttering the first name that occurred to me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.” The inspector filled in the charge-sheet.
“Where do you live?”
Again I hesitated.
“No use hatching up any lies! Where do you live?”
“I refuse to say.”
“Hum!” muttered the officer as if to himself. “It’s only guilty persons who refuse their address; but if you won’t answer, then there’s an end of it. What are you?”
“Nothing.”
“Gentleman at large, I suppose,” said he, smiling incredulously as he surveyed my clothes.