“Strange name—­not French?”

The dying man shook his head.

“Gasc—­tell—­Engl—­”

It was the last supreme effort.  With a long, deep groan, the poor fellow fell back dead.

“How unfortunate!” cried the commissary, “to die just when he would have told us all.  These few words will scarcely suffice to identify the murderers.  Can any one help us?”

M. Bontoux looked round.

“The name he mentioned I know,” said the night-porter, quickly.  “This M. Gascoigne came here frequently.  He is an Englishman.”

“So I gathered from the dead man’s words.  Do you know his domicile in Paris?”

“Rue St. Honore, Hotel Versailles and St. Cloud.  I have seen him enter it more than once, with his wife.  He has lived there some months.”

“We must, if possible, lay hands on him at once.  You, Jules, hasten with another police-agent to the Rue St. Honore; he may have gone straight to his hotel.”

“And if we find him?”

“Arrest him and take him straight to the Prefecture.  I will follow.  There, there! lose no time.”

“I am already gone,” said the police-officer as he ran downstairs.

CHAPTER II.

ARREST AND INTERROGATION.

The Hotel Versailles and St. Cloud was one of the best hotels of Paris at this time, a time long antecedent to the opening of such vast caravansaries as the Louvre, the Continental, the Athenee, or the Grand.  It occupied four sides of a courtyard, to which access was had by the usual gateway.  The porter’s lodge was in the latter, and this functionary, in sabots and shirt-sleeves, was sweeping out the entrance when the police arrived in a cab, which they ordered to wait at the door.

“M.  Gascoigne?” asked the agent.

“On the first floor, number forty-three,” replied the porter, without looking up.  “Monsieur has but just returned,” he went on.  “Knock gently, or you may disturb him in his first sleep.”

“We shall disturb him in any case,” said the police-officer, gruffly.  “Justice cannot wait.”

“The police!” cried the porter, now recognising his visitors for the first time.  “What has happened, in Heaven’s name?”

“Stand aside; we have no time to gossip,” replied the agent, as he passed on.

The occupant of No. 43 upon the first floor was pacing his room with agitated steps—­a young man with fair complexion and light curly hair; but his blue eyes were clouded, and his fresh, youthful face was drawn and haggard.  His attire, too—­English, like his aspect—­was torn and dishevelled, his voluminous neckcloth was disarranged, his waistcoat had lost several buttons, and there were stains—­dark purple stains—­upon sleeves and smallclothes.

“What has become of her?” he was saying as he strode up and down; “she has not been here; she could not have come home when we parted at the door of the Vaudeville—­the bed has not been slept in.  Can she have gone?  Is it possible that she has left me?”