“Kindly let Colonel Papillon have that without delay.”  The General had written a few words:  “I have got into fresh trouble.  Come on to me at the Police Prefecture if you can spare the time.”

“The Colonel is now in the Chancery:  will not monsieur wait?” asked the porter, with superb civility.

But the detective would not suffer this, and interposed, answering abruptly for Sir Charles: 

“No.  It is impossible.  We are going to the Quai l’Horloge.  It is an urgent matter.”

The porter knew what the Quai l’Horloge meant, and he guessed intuitively who was speaking.  Every Frenchman can recognize a police officer, and has, as a rule, no great opinion of him.

“Very well!” now said the porter, curtly, as he banged the wicket-gate on the retreating cab, and he did not hurry himself in giving the card to Colonel Papillon.

“Does this mean that I am a prisoner?” asked Sir Charles, his gorge rising, as it did easily.

“It means, monsieur, that you are in the hands of justice until your recent conduct has been fully explained,” said the detective, with the air of a despot.

“But I protest—­”

“I wish to hear no further observations, monsieur.  You may reserve them till you can give them to the right person.”

The General’s temper was sorely ruffled.  He did not like it at all; yet what could he do?  Prudence gained the day, and after a struggle he decided to submit, lest worse might befall him.

There was, in truth, worse to be encountered.  It was very irksome to be in the power of this now domineering little man on his own ground, and eager to show his power.  It was with a very bad grace that Sir Charles obeyed the curt orders he received, to leave the cab, to enter at a side door of the Prefecture, to follow this pompous conductor along the long vaulted passages of this rambling building, up many flights of stone stairs, to halt obediently at his command when at length they reached a closed door on an upper story.

“It is here!” said M. Flocon, as he turned the handle unceremoniously without knocking.  “Enter.”

A man was seated at a small desk in the centre of a big bare room, who rose at once at the sight of M. Flocon, and bowed deferentially without speaking.

“Baume,” said the Chief, shortly, “I wish to leave this gentleman with you.  Make him at home,”—­the words were spoken in manifest irony,—­“and when I call you, bring him at once to my cabinet.  You, monsieur, you will oblige me by staying here.”

Sir Charles nodded carelessly, took the first chair that offered, and sat down by the fire.

He was to all intents and purposes in custody, and he examined his gaoler at first wrathfully, then curiously, struck with his rather strange figure and appearance.  Baume, as the Chief had called him, was a short, thick-set man with a great shock head sunk in low between a pair of enormous shoulders, betokening great physical strength; he stood on very thin but greatly twisted bow legs, and the quaintness of his figure was emphasized by the short black blouse or smock-frock he wore over his other clothes like a French artisan.