Then, when in the custody of the patrolman, he went out to the street, his mood was still so concentrated, his anger and depression so acute, that he was transported out of the very circumstances which caused him to be angry and depressed. He realized, with a hazy sort of perception, that a tail of small boys had attached itself to the lodestar of the policeman's uniform; but even at this indignity, his reaction was curiously impersonal. It was as though the spiritual part of him and the material part had got a divorce; and the spiritual part, which was the plaintiff, stood coldly aloof, watching the material part tramping down Main Street, with a flat-footed policeman beside it, a voluntary escort behind, and rumour flying on ahead to all the newspapers. He was actually too humiliated to suffer from the humiliation. To be sure, this wasn't by any means his first entanglement with the law, but heretofore his occasions had been marked by a very different ritual. He recalled, phlegmatically, that whenever, in the old days, a member of the motorcycle squad had shot past him, and signalled to him to stop, the man had always treated him more or less fraternally, in recognition of the fellowship of high speed. The traffic officers had cheerfully delivered a summons with one hand, and accepted a cigar with the other. There was a sort of sporting code about it; and even in Court, a gentleman who had been arrested for speeding was given the consideration which belonged to his rank, and the fine was usually doubled on the assumption that a gentleman could afford it. But this was different. A Devereux--which was almost the same thing as a Starkweather--was haled along the highway like a common prisoner. And if the Devereux hadn't been engaged in that two-for-a-cent, low-class, revolting business,--and if Aunt Mirabelle hadn't been Aunt Mirabelle--it couldn't have happened. The spiritual part of him looked down at the material part, and wondered how Henry Devereux could be so white-hot with passion, and yet so calm. What would his friends say now? What would Bob Standish say, and Mr. Archer and Judge Barklay? And what would Aunt Mirabelle _not_ say? This was a grim reflection. During the journey he spoke only once, and that was to say, brusquely, to his captor: "Court isn't open today, is it?" "Nope. But we're goin' to a Justice o' the Peace. Might save you a night in the hoosegow. Can't tell. Orders, anyway."