— — —Belle followed Mr. Matchwell into the police station. She longed to question him as to what would be his immediate action — what course the case would take now? She knew that to do this would be a display of weakness and folly, so she remained silent, her fingers tightly clasped round the little book of French verse.
She supposed she was not wanted any more, and would be allowed to depart without any questions. She did not want to do this. There was excitement to her in the drab and ugly atmosphere of the police station, in the rooms with the stucco walls, the plaster busts of Justice and The Sovereign, the spittoon on the floor, and the flagging fires in the narrow iron grate. So she hesitated, pretending to adjust slowly her shawl, which had slipped down, to brush the wet stains le
