He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

“It was too horrible.  To see him fall at my feet, struck down just when I—­Who is there?” he cried suddenly, in answer to a knock at the door.

“Open, in the name of the law!”

“The police here already!  What shall I do?”

“Open at once, or we shall force the door.”

The young man slowly drew back the bolt and admitted the two police-agents.

“M.  Gascoigne?  You will not answer to your name?  That is equal—­we arrest you.”

“On what charge?”

“It is not our place to explain.  We act by authority:  that is enough.  Will you go with us quietly, or must we use force?”

“Of what am I accused?”

“You will hear in good time.  Isidore, where is your rope?”

His colleague produced the long thin cord that serves instead of handcuffs in France.

“Must we tie you?”

“No, no!  I am ready to submit, but under protest.  You shall answer for this outrage.  I am an Englishman.  I will appeal to our ambassador.”

“With all my heart!  We are not afraid.  But enough said.  Come.”

The three—­police-agents and their prisoner—­went out together.  On the threshold of No. 43 the officer named Jules said—­

“Your key, monsieur—­the key of your room.  I will take charge of it.  Monsieur the Judge will no doubt make a searching perquisition, and no one must enter it till then.”

The door was locked, M. Jules put the key in his pocket, and the party went down to the cab, which was driven off rapidly to the depot of the Prefecture.

Here the usual formalities were gone through.  Rupert Gascoigne, as the Englishman was called, was interrogated, searched, deprived of money, watch, penknife, and pencil-case; his description was noted down, and then he was asked whether he would go into the common prison, or pay for the accommodation of the pistole or private “side.”

For sixteen sous daily they gave him a room to himself, with a little iron cot, a chair, and a table.  Another franc or two got him his breakfast and dinner, and he was allowed to enjoy them with such appetite as he could command.

No one came near him till next morning, when he was roused from the heavy sleep that had only come to him after dawn by a summons to appear before the Juge d’instruction.

He was led by two policemen to a little room, barely furnished, with one great bureau, or desk, in the centre, at which sat the judge, his back to the window.  On one side of him was a smaller desk for the clerk, and exactly opposite a chair for the accused, so arranged that the light beat full upon his face.

“Sit down,” said the judge, abruptly.

He was a stern-looking man, dressed all in black, still young, with a cold and impassive face, the extreme pallor of which was heightened by his close-cut, coal-black hair, and his small, piercing, beady black eyes.