They gave the wretched man but scant consideration, and in less than three minutes had visited every pocket, examined every secret receptacle, and practically turned him inside out.

After this there could no longer be any doubt of his identity, still less of his complicity in the crime.

First among the many damning evidences of his guilt was the missing pocketbook of the porter of the sleeping-car.  Within was the train card and the passengers’ tickets, all the papers which the man Groote had lost so unaccountably.  They had, of course, been stolen from his person with the obvious intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder.  Next, in another inner pocket was Quadling’s own wallet, with his own visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name; above all, a thick sheaf of bank-notes of all nationalities—­English, French, Italian, and amounting in total value to several thousands of pounds.

“Well, do you still deny?  Bah! it is childish, useless, mere waste of breath.  At last we have penetrated the mystery.  You may as well confess.  Whether or no, we have enough to convict you by independent testimony,” said the Judge, severely.  “Come, what have you to say?”

But Quadling, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute.  He was in the toils, the net had closed round him, they should have no assistance from him.

“Come, speak out; it will be best.  Remember, we have means to make you—­”

“Will you interrogate him further, M. Beaumont le Hardi?  Here, at once?”

“No, let him be removed to the Prefecture; it will be more convenient; to my private office.”

Without more ado a fiacre was called, and the prisoner was taken off under escort, M. Flocon seated by his side, one policeman in front, another on the box, and lodged in a secret cell at the Quai l’Horloge.

“And you, gentlemen?” said the Judge to Sir Charles and Colonel Papillon.  “I do not wish to detain you further, although there may be points you might help us to elucidate if I might venture to still trespass on your time?”

Sir Charles was eager to return to the Hotel Madagascar, and yet he felt that he should best serve his dear Countess by seeing this to the end.  So he readily assented to accompany the Judge, and Colonel Papillon, who was no less curious, agreed to go too.

“I sincerely trust,” said the Judge on the way, “that our people have laid hands on that woman Petitpre.  I believe that she holds the key to the situation, that when we hear her story we shall have a clear case against Quadling; and—­who knows?—­she may completely exonerate Madame la Comtesse.”

During the events just recorded, which occupied a good hour, the police agents had time to go and come from the Rue Bellechasse.  They did not return empty-handed, although at first it seemed as if they had made a fruitless journey.  The Hotel Ivoire was a very second-class place, a lodging-house, or hotel with furnished rooms let out by the week to lodgers with whom the proprietor had no very close acquaintance.  His clerk did all the business, and this functionary produced the register, as he is bound by law, for the inspection of the police officers, but afforded little information as to the day’s arrivals.