“Your name and nationality?”

“Rupert Gascoigne.  I am an Englishman, and as such I must at once protest against the treatment I have received.”

“You have been treated in accordance with the law—­of France.  You must abide by it, since you choose to live here.  I do not owe you this explanation, but I give it to uphold the majesty of the law.”

“I shall appeal to our ambassador.”

The judge waved his hand, as though the threat did not affect him.

“I must ask you to keep silence.  You are here to be interrogated; you will only speak in reply to my questions.”

There was a pause, during which judge and accused looked hard at each other; the former seeking to read the other’s inmost thoughts, the latter meeting the gaze with resolute and unflinching eyes.

“What is your age?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“But your wife has left you.”

Gascoigne started in spite of himself.

“How do you know that?” he asked, nervously.

“It is for me to question.  But I know it:  that is enough.  Your occupation and position in life?”

“I am a gentleman, living on my means.”

“It is false.”  An angry flush rose to Gascoigne’s face as the judge thus gave him the lie.  “It is false—­you are a professional gambler—­a Greek—­a sharper, with no ostensible means!”

“Pardon me, monsieur; you are quite misinformed.  I could prove to you—­”

“It would be useless; the police have long known and watched you.”

“Such espionage is below contempt,” cried Gascoigne, indignantly.

“Silence!  Do not dare to question the conduct of the authorities.  It is the visit of persons of your stamp to Paris that renders such precautions necessary.”

“If you believe all you hear from your low agents, with their lying, scandalous reports—­”

“Be careful, prisoner; your demeanour will get you into trouble.  Our information about you is accurate and trustworthy.  Judge for yourself.”

Gascoigne looked incredulous.

“Listen; you arrived in Paris three months ago, accompanied by a young demoiselle whom you had decoyed from her home.”

“She was my wife.”

“Yes; you married her after your arrival here.  The official records of the 21st arrondisement prove that—­married her without her parents’ consent.”

“That is not so.  They approved.”

“How could they?  Your wife’s father is French vice-consul at Gibraltar.  Her mother is dead.  Neither was present at your marriage; how, then, could they approve?”

Gascoigne did not answer.

“On your first arrival you were well provided with funds—­the proceeds, no doubt, of some nefarious scheme; a run of luck at the tables; the plunder of some pigeon—­”

“The price of my commission in the English Army.”