"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?"
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.
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