"I'm
an inspector of constabulary."
"On what charge?" Guy exclaimed, half taken aback at this promptitude.
"I have a warrant against you, sir," the inspector answered, "as
you are no doubt aware, for the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt,
on the 17th of August, year before last, at Mambury, in Devonshire."
The word's fell upon Guy's ears with all the suddenness and crushing
force of an unexpected thunderbolt.
"Wilful murder," he cried, taken aback by the charge. "Wilful
murder of Montague Nevitt at Mambury! Oh no, you can't mean that!
Montague Nevitt dead! Montague Nevitt murdered! And at Mambury,
too! There MUST be some mistake somewhere."
"No, there's no mistake at all, this time," the inspector said
quietly, slipping a pair of handcuffs unobstrusively into his pocket
as he spoke. "If you come along with me without any unnecessary
noise, we won't trouble to iron you. But you'd better say as little
as possible about the charget just now, for whatever you say may
be used in evidence at the trial against you."
Guy turned to Cyril with an appealing look. "Cyril," he, cried,
"what does all this mean? Is Nevitt dead? It's the very first word
I've ever heard about it."
Cyril's heart gave a bound of wild relief at those words.
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