A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE.
We could scarcely have accomplished more than a mile of our homeward
journey when, with a sudden jerk which almost threw me forward, the
carriage was brought to a standstill.
On the opposite side of the road were two carriages, or, rather, flys,
from one of which a tall, slim man was in the act of descending. Several
other men on horseback were just riding up from behind. They were all in
plain clothes, but something about their _physique_ and general
appearance had an unmistakable suggestion of police.
The man who had been descending from the nearer of the two carriages
crossed the road and approached me.
"Sorry to detain you, sir," he said, saluting in military fashion, "but I
must ask you your name and address and where you have been this evening."
"I don't know whether it has occurred to you that your behaviour is
rather strange," I remarked, looking at him steadily, "not to say
impertinent! What the mischief do you mean by stopping my carriage in
this way on the high road and asking me questions like that? Who are
you?"
He hesitated, and then answered with a little more respect in his manner.
"I am deputy chief sergeant at Scotland Yard, sir, and these are my men.
We have a little business at a house not far from here, and our orders
are to detain and procure the names and addresses of all persons whom we
might encounter of whom we had reasonable suspicion that they had
recently left the house in question. You will not object to give me your
name, sir?"
"Certainly not. My name is Philip Morton, and my general address is
Ravenor Castle, Leicestershire. At present I am staying at the Metropole
Hotel. Are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly, sir," he answered, after one more rapid glance around the
carriage. "I see that you are not concerned in this affair. I wish you
good-night!"
We drove rapidly off, and I began to feel not a little dissatisfied with
myself. The Count had no right to have mixed me up in this affair.
In my ill-temper I gave the box, which lay concealed under my feet, a
savage kick, sufficient to have sent it flying to the other end of the
carriage. But there was a little surprise in store for me. To my
amazement the box remained perfectly immovable, just as though it had
been screwed into the bottom of the carriage.
Forgetting the Count's earnest injunctions, I threw aside the rug and,
stooping down, tried to lift it by the handles. In those days I was proud
of my muscles, and not altogether without reason, but it needed all my
strength to lift that small box from the ground and hold it for a moment
in my arms. What could it contain? Papers, cards, gambling appliances?
Surely it could be none of these! The very idea was ridiculous! The Count
de Cartienne had deceived me. I had been made the catspaw of those pale,
anxious men who had watched me start so eagerly and scanned me over with
many furtive glances. What it was of which I was in charge, I could not
tell; but in that box lay their secret, and my first indignant impulse
was to open the carriage door and kick it out into the road.
But are not second thoughts always better? Might not this affair shape
itself to my advantage? There need be no more obligations to the Count de
Cartienne. He was possessed of information which was valuable to me. I
was possessed of this box, which, without doubt, was invaluable to him. I
would propose an exchange--he should bring me face to face with Mr. Marx
and receive his precious box; or, if he refused to do so, its destination
should be Scotland Yard. A very equitable arrangement!