It is Lenoir.

He wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapid step, suspecting nothing.  The sergeant gives the word—­the soldiers spring to their feet—­I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and only Mueller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against the door-post.

Then Lenoir crosses over, and Mueller, affecting to observe him for the first time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:—­

“Comment! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?”

Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address, hesitates—­seems about to reply—­checks himself—­quickens his pace, and passes without a word.

The next instant he is surrounded.  The butt ends of four muskets rattle on the pavement—­the sergeant’s hand is on his shoulder—­the sergeant’s voice rings in his ear.

“Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE END OF BRAS BE FER.

LENOIR’s first impulse was to struggle in silence; then, finding escape hopeless, he folded his arms and submitted.

“So, it is Monsieur Mueller who has done me this service,” he said coldly; but with a flash in his eye like the sudden glint in the eye of a cobra di capello.  “I will take care not to be unmindful of the obligation.”

Then, turning impatiently upon the sergeant:—­

“Have you no carriage at hand?” he said, sharply; “or do you want to collect a crowd in the street?”

The cab, however, which had been waiting a few doors lower down, drove up while he was speaking.  The sergeant hurried him in; the half-dozen loiterers who had already gathered about us pressed eagerly forward; two of the soldiers and the sergeant got inside; Mueller and I scrambled up beside the driver; word was given “to the Prefecture of Police;” and we drove rapidly away down the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, through the arch of Louis Quatorze, out upon the bright noisy Boulevard, and on through thoroughfares as brilliant and crowded as at midday, towards the quays and the river.

Arrived at the Quai des Ortevres, we alighted at the Prefecture, and were conducted through a series of ante-rooms and corridors into the presence of the same bald-headed Chef de Bureau whom we had seen on each previous occasion.  He looked up as we came in, pressed the spring of a small bell that stood upon his desk, and growled something in the ear of a clerk who answered the summons.

“Sergeant,” he said, pompously, “bring the prisoner under the gas-burner.”

Lenoir, without waiting to be brought, took a couple of steps forward, and placed himself in the light.

Monsieur le Chef then took out his double eye-glass, and proceeded to compare Lenoir’s face, feature by feature, with a photograph which he took out of his pocket-book for the purpose.