"Stand up straight, I want to take your measure," the constable said, and as I obeyed, he exclaimed, "Five-foot-nine." "What's your name?" asked the officer, looking towards me. I hesitated. "Give us your right one, now; or it may go against you." Why need I? Was it not a disgrace to be arrested? For Vera's sake I felt I must keep the matter secret. "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. "Very well; no occupation," and then there was a silence of some minutes, only broken by the hissing of the flaring gas-jet, and the monotonous scratching of the inspector's quill. "Sign your names," he commanded, when he had finished; and the two constables who had arrested me appended their signatures. "Now, prisoner," said the inspector, as he blotted the charge-sheet, "you are charged with breaking and entering the dwelling-house, Number 4, Angel Court, Drury Lane, for the purpose of committing a felony. I must caution you that any statement you make will be taken down and used as evidence against you." "I don't see how I can be suspected of a felony when the place is unoccupied," I replied. "You must leave that point to be decided to-morrow by the magistrate. A man don't break into a house for nothing." "Two days ago a man died in that house, and I was searching for his body in order to give you information," I said. "That can't be true, sir," interposed one of the men. "The house hasn't been lived in for a year or more." "Well, if a man died there a couple of days ago there would be surely be some furniture, or some traces of habitation. When he's in the cell, go and examine the premises thoroughly." "Very well, sir," the man answered. "Now," said the inspector, turning to me, "have you anything more to say?" "Nothing; I've told you the truth." "Turn out your pockets. We'll take care of your valuables," he said laying stress on the last word, as if it were not likely my possessions were worth much. The constable lifted the bar allowing me to step from the dock, and I went to a small table and commenced placing the contents of my pockets thereon. Some silver, my pocket-book, penknife, pencil-case, and other articles I produced, each of which were examined by the two men. The pocket-book, one that Vera had given me, attracted the most curiosity, and one of them opened it and commenced reading my memoranda, also scrutinising the various papers and cards therein.