They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. I was helpless. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House. He had been abusing them for a long time when I arrived.
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