"Why not?" I demanded, but my voice quavered too much to be effective.
"Mr. Beresford's been arrested."
"But, in God's name, what for?"
"That's none of my business," was the answer.
George was diving significantly into his trouser-pocket, but I felt that
what lay before me was too serious for trifling with half-crowns. I
handed the man my card and repeated my request.
"It's not mere curiosity," I said. "If you don't tell me, there are
others who will; but I want to save time."
I always have the letters "M.P." printed on my cards to impress
government departments, for throughout the public service there is an
inherited dread that a question may be asked in the House; the hierarchy
from top to bottom makes it the first business of life to avoid such
publicity. This instinct of self-preservation, deeply-rooted as a
horse's fear of a snake in the grass, led the constable to inform me
promptly that Beresford had been arrested for issuing seditious
literature; his flat was at the moment being searched.
My own sigh of relief was drowned by a deeper sigh from George.
"When did this take place?" he asked.
"To-day, sir. I can't tell you the time; I've only just come on duty."
"Was there anyone there besides Mr. Beresford? Is there anyone there
now?"
"The inspector, sir; and two men."
George thanked him and led me by the arm to the head of the stairs.
"Thank God!" he whispered. "You--you thought so, too; I could see it in
your face. Oh, Christ, if they were going to arrest the fellow, why
couldn't they have done it sooner? _I_ don't know what to do now. At
least--I must go back to 'The Sanctuary' and see what's happened there."
He dragged me down stairs and into our taxi at a pace which more than
once threatened to break both our necks. "Where the devil can _she_ have
gone to, Stornaway? She'd naturally come here. But, when they arrested
him ..."
The shrouded lamp over "The Sanctuary" door was unlighted when we
arrived; the door was locked against us, and, though I now remembered
hearing the key turn when O'Rane shewed us out, the cherished little
piece of his beloved childish symbolism was grown painfully familiar.
"Come round to the other door," said George, and we were admitted and
ushered into Bertrand's room. "Any news?" he enquired gently.
Someone had drawn the blinds, someone had brought in a tray of food;
otherwise the room was unchanged in aspect, and Bertrand seemed not to
have moved since I left him stretched in the long wicker chair three
hours earlier.
"News?" he repeated, opening his eyes and blinking at us. "David's gone
back to Melton. Ah! this is a bad business! Give me a hand up, George;
I'm tired. I sometimes think I've lived too long."