"What do you want with me? Speak quickly; I'm in a hurry." "I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation just now at the hotel, and so I took the liberty of following you to ask you a question." "Yes?" said Scarsdale interrogatively. "If I mistake not you are the brother of the United States Consul at Christchurch, and came over to his wedding." "Yes," he admitted; for he did not see how he could well deny to one man what he had just confessed to another. "You have been in England about ten days, I think?" "As long as that, certainly." "May I ask what ship you came on?" "By what right do you ask me these questions?" "You will see presently." "But suppose I refuse to answer them?" The unknown shrugged his shoulders, and said quietly: "Now wasn't it the _Paris_?" "Yes," said Scarsdale, who remembered with joy having seen that fact chronicled in a London paper. "I suppose you have never been in Winchester before?" "Never in my life." "Not last week?" "Look here!" said Scarsdale angrily, "what the devil are you driving at?" "It is a pity you should have such a good memory for past and not for recent events," said the quiet little man, "a great pity." "I tell you I have never been here!" "Didn't dine at the Lion's Head last Wednesday, for instance?" "No, I did not, and I've had enough of this insolence!" "So have I," said the little man, blowing a little whistle. "So have I, and therefore I arrest you, Richard Allingford, in the Queen's name." CHAPTER VII IN WHICH MR. SCARSDALE REAPS ANOTHER'S WHIRLWIND Scarsdale was absolutely staggered by the word "arrest." Arrest! What nonsense! Who was this man who talked of arresting _him_, Harold Scarsdale, peaceably engaged in trying to find his wife and proceed on his honeymoon? The first sensations of surprise and incredulity were quickly followed, however, by a realisation of the horrible situation in which his own stupidity had placed him. In the eyes of the law he was not Harold Scarsdale, but Richard Allingford, and he shuddered to think with what crime he might be charged; for, from what he had learned in the last half-hour, he could not doubt that he was posing as one of the most abandoned characters that had ever visited the town of Winchester. A person who consorted with horse-thieves, cheated at cards, and thought nothing of shooting friends who were not thirsty, would surely be satisfied with no ordinary crime. Of what was he accused? He hardly dared to ask. And how was he to get out of this dreadful dilemma? His reflections, however, were cut short by the arrival of a burly policeman, in answer to his captor's whistle. The little man at once addressed the newcomer, quite ignoring Scarsdale. "Here's your man Allingford; not a doubt of it," he said. "Got your warrant?" inquired the policeman, laying a detaining hand on the prisoner's shoulder.