They neared the motors.

“Get ready!” he ordered as soon as he was in sight.  “I’ll drive myself.”

He tried to get into the driver’s seat.  But Weber objected and pushed him inside, saying: 

“Don’t trouble—­the chauffeur knows his business.  He’ll drive faster than you would.”

Don Luis, the deputy chief, and two detectives crowded into the cab; Mazeroux took his seat beside the chauffeur.

“Versailles Road!” roared Don Luis.

The car started; and he continued: 

“We’ve got him!  You see, it’s a magnificent opportunity.  He must be going pretty fast, but without forcing the pace, because he doesn’t think we’re after him.  Oh, the villain, we’ll make him sit up!  Quicker, driver!  But what the devil are we loaded up like this for?  You and I, Deputy Chief, would have been enough.  Hi, Mazeroux, get down and jump into the other car!  That’ll be better, won’t it, Deputy?  It’s absurd—­”

He interrupted himself; and, as he was sitting on the back seat, between the deputy chief and a detective, he rose toward the window and muttered: 

“Why, look here, what’s the idiot doing?  That’s not the road!  I say, what does this mean?”

A roar of laughter was the only answer.  It came from Weber, who was shaking with delight.  Don Luis stifled an oath and, making a tremendous effort, tried to leap from the car.  Six hands fell upon him and held him motionless.  The deputy chief had him by the throat.  The detectives clutched his arms.  There was no room for him to struggle within the restricted space of the small car; and he felt the cold iron of a revolver on his temple.

“None of your nonsense,” growled Weber, “or I’ll blow out your brains, my boy!  Aha! you didn’t expect this!  It’s Weber’s revenge, eh?”

And, when Perenna continued to wriggle, he went on, in a threatening tone: 

“You’ll have only yourself to blame, mind!...  I’m going to count three:  one, two—­”

“But what’s it all about?” bellowed Don Luis.

“Prefect’s orders, received just now.”

“What orders?”

“To take you to the lockup if the Florence girl escaped us again.”

“Have you a warrant?”

“I have.”

“And what next?”

“What next?  Nothing:  the Sante—­the examining magistrate—­”

“But, hang it all, the tiger’s making tracks meanwhile!  Oh, rot!  Is it possible to be so dense?  What mugs those fellows are!  Oh, dash it!”

He was fuming with rage, and when he saw that they were driving into the prison yard, he gathered all his strength, knocked the revolver out of the deputy’s hand, and stunned one of the detectives with a blow of his fist.

But ten men came crowding round the doors.  Resistance was useless.  He understood this, and his rage increased.

“The idiots!” he shouted, while they surrounded him and searched him at the door of the office.  “The rotters!  The bunglers!  To go mucking up a job like that!  They can lay hands on the villain if they want to, and they lock up the honest man—­while the villain makes himself scarce!  And he’ll do more murder yet!  Florence!  Florence ...”