Then I stopped. If we were merely taking the emeralds back to Lady Cockfosters, that is, from one house in Eaton Square to another house in Eaton Square, what were we doing out of the Square? I glanced at Susan Berry. She was as white as a sheet. The solution of the puzzle occurred to me at once. Susan’s sister was an ingenious fiction. Susan was a jewel thief, working with a gang of jewel thieves, and her request that I would accompany her to this mythical sister was part of a plan for stealing the emeralds. “At whose instance has the warrant been issued?” I asked. “The Marquis of Cockfosters.” My suspicions were only too well confirmed. I did not speak a word to Susan Berry. I could not. I merely looked at her. “You’ll come quietly to the station?” the policeman said. “Certainly,” I replied. “As for us, the matter can soon be cleared up. I am Lord Trent’s valet, No. 441, Eaton Square, and he must be sent for.” “Oh, must he!” the constable jeered. “Come on. Perhaps you’d prefer a cab.” A four-wheeler was passing. I myself hailed the sleepy cabman, and we all three got in. The policeman prudently took the bag from Susan’s nerveless hands. None of us spoke. I was too depressed, Susan was probably too ashamed, and the constable was no doubt too bored. After a brief drive we drew up. Another policeman opened the door of the cab, and over the open portal of the building in front of us I saw the familiar blue lamp, with the legend “Metropolitan Police” in white letters. The two policemen carefully watched us as we alighted, and escorted us up the steps into the station. Happily, there was no one about; my humiliation was abject enough without that. Charles Saunders a prisoner in a police station! I could scarcely credit my senses. One becomes used to a police station--in the newspapers; but to be inside one--that is different, widely different. The two policemen took us into a bare room, innocent of any furniture save a wooden form, a desk, a chair, some printed notices of rewards offered, and an array of handcuffs and revolvers on the mantelpiece. In the chair, with a big book in front of him on the desk, sat the inspector in charge. He was in his shirt-sleeves. “A hot night,” he said, smiling, to the policeman. I silently agreed. It appeared that we were expected. They took our full names, our addresses and occupations, and then the inspector read the warrant to us. Of course, it didn’t explain things in the least. I began to speak. “Let me warn you,” said the inspector, “that anything you say now may be used against you at your trial.” My trial! “Can I write a note to Lord Trent?” I asked, nettled. “Yes, if you will pay for a cab to take it.” I threw down half-a-crown, and scribbled a line to my master, begging him to come at once. “The constable must search you,” the inspector said, when this was done and the first policeman had disappeared with the note.