At a signal from within the police entered, resumed charge of the prisoner, and escorted him, by many winding passages, down a steep staircase to an underground passage, ending in a dungeon-like room, badly lighted by one small, heavily-barred window, through which no glimpse of the sky was seen.

Here he was left alone, and for a long time utterly neglected.  No one came near him till late in the day, when he was brought a basin of thin soup and a hunch of coarse ammunition bread.  He spoke to his jailers, asking for more and better food, but obtained no reply.  He asked them for paper, pens, and ink; he wished, he said, to make a full statement of his case to the British Embassy, and demand its protection.  Still no reply.  Maddened by this contemptuous treatment, and despairing almost of justice, he begged, entreated the warder to take pity on him, to tell him at least how long they meant to keep him there in such terrible solitude, cut off altogether from the advice and assistance of friends.  The warder shook his head stolidly, and at length broke silence, but only to say, “It is by superior order,” then left him.

Gascoigne passed a terrible night, the second night in durance, but far worse than the first.  He was torn now with apprehensions as to his fate; circumstances seemed so much against him; the facts, as stated by the judge, might be grossly misrepresented; but how was he to dispute them?  There was no justice in this miserable country, with such a partial and one-sided system of law.  He began to fear that his life was in their hands; already he felt his head on the block, under the shadow of the awful guillotine.

Nor were his personal terrors the only nightmare that visited and oppressed him.  He was harassed, tortured, by the shameless conduct of his wife; of the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything—­profession, fortune, name, the affection of relatives, the respect of friends.  With base, black-hearted perfidy, she had deserted him for another, had plotted against him, had helped to bring him into his present terrible straits.

Once again they awoke him, unrefreshed, from the deep sleep haunted by such hideous dreams.  He was told to dress himself and come out.  At the door of his cell the same escort—­two police-agents—­awaited him.

“Where are you taking me?  Again before that hateful judge?”

“Monsieur had better speak more respectfully,” replied one of them, in a warning voice.

“It is no use, I tell you, his interrogating me.  I have nothing more to say.”

“Silence!” cried the other, “and march.”

They led him along the passage and upstairs, but not, as before, to the judge’s cabinet.  Turning aside, they passed on one side of it, and out into the open air.  There was a cab drawn up close to the door, the prisoner was ordered to get in, one police-agent taking his seat alongside, the other mounting on the box.  The glasses were drawn up, and the cab drove rapidly away.