“You are right,” I answered.  “It is now or never!”

“Dudley,” Charles said, in his most authoritative voice, “stop here till we tell you you may leave the room.  Amelia and Dolly, don’t let that man stir from where he’s standing.  If he does, restrain him.  Seymour and Dr. Beddersley, come down with me to the servants’ hall.  I suppose that’s where I shall find this person, Dudley?”

“N—­no, sir,” Dudley stammered out, half beside himself with fright.  “He’s in the housekeeper’s room, sir!”

We went down to the lower regions in a solid phalanx of three.  On the way we met Simpson, Sir Charles’s valet, and also the butler, whom we pressed into the service.  At the door of the housekeeper’s room we paused, strategically.  Voices came to us from within; one was Césarine’s, the other had a ring that reminded me at once of Medhurst and the Seer, of Elihu Quackenboss and Algernon Coleyard.  They were talking together in French; and now and then we caught the sound of stifled laughter.

We opened the door.  “Est-il drôle, donc, ce vieux?” the man’s voice was saying.

“C’est à mourir de rire,” Césarine’s voice responded.

We burst in upon them, red-handed.

Césarine’s young man rose, with his hat in his hand, in a respectful attitude.  It reminded me at once of Medhurst, as he stood talking his first day at Marvillier’s to Charles; and also of the little curate, in his humblest moments as the disinterested pastor.

With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder.  I looked in the fellow’s face:  there could be no denying it; Césarine’s young man was Paul Finglemore, our broker’s brother.

“Paul Finglemore,” Charles said severely, “otherwise Cuthbert Clay, I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy!”

The young man glanced around him.  He was surprised and perturbed; but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted him.  “What, five to one?” he said, counting us over.  “Has law and order come down to this?  Five respectable rascals to arrest one poor beggar of a chevalier d’industrie!  Why, it’s worse than New York. There, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten per Cent!”

“Hold his hands, Simpson!” Charles cried, trembling lest his enemy should escape him.

Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders.  “No, not you, sir,” he said to the man, haughtily.  “Don’t dare to lay your hands upon me!  Send for a constable if you wish, Sir Charles Vandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!”

“Go for a policeman,” Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standing forward.

The prisoner eyed him up and down.  “Oh, Dr. Beddersley!” he said, relieved.  It was evident he knew him.  “If you’ve tracked me strictly in accordance with Bertillon’s methods, I don’t mind so much.  I will not yield to fools; I yield to science.  I didn’t think this diamond king had sense enough to apply to you.  He’s the most gullible old ass I ever met in my life.  But if it’s you who have tracked me down, I can only submit to it.”