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.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Gascoigne.
"You will see," replied his conductor, coldly.
"To another prison?"
"Silence! A prisoner is not permitted to enter into conversation with
his guard."
Thus rebuffed, Gascoigne resigned himself to gazing mournfully through
the windows as the cab rattled along.
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