LITMIR.BIZ

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law. The commissary therefore bent his head, closely attentive to catch any words the dying man might utter.

      "Water! water!" he gasped out. "Revenge me; it was a foul and cowardly blow."

      "Who struck you, can you tell us? Do you know him?" inquired the commissary, eagerly.

      "Yes. I—know—" The voice grew visibly weaker; it sank into a whisper, and could speak only in monosyllables.

      "His name—quick!"

      "There—were—three—I had no chance—Gas—coigne—"

      "Strange name—not French?"

      The dying man shook his head.

      "Gasc—tell—Engl—"

      It was the last supreme effort. With a long, deep groan, the poor fellow fell back dead.

      "How unfortunate!" cried the commissary, "to die just when he would have told us all. These few words will scarcely suffice to identify the murderers. Can any one help us?"

      M. Bontoux looked round.

      "The name he mentioned I know," said the night-porter, quickly. "This M. Gascoigne came here frequently. He is an Englishman."

      "So I gathered from the dead man's words. Do you know his domicile in Paris?"

      "Rue St. Honoré, Hôtel Versailles and St. Cloud. I have seen him enter it more than once, with his wife. He has lived there some months."

      "We must, if possible, lay hands on him at once. You, Jules, hasten with another police-agent to the Rue St. Honoré; he may have gone straight to his hotel."

      "And if we find him?"

      "Arrest him and take him straight to the Préfecture. I will follow. There, there! lose no time."

      "I am already gone," said the police-officer as he ran downstairs.

      CHAPTER II.

      ARREST AND INTERROGATION

      The Hôtel Versailles and St. Cloud was one of the best hotels of Paris at this time, a time long antecedent to the opening of such vast caravansaries as the Louvre, the Continental, the Athenée, or the Grand. It occupied four sides of a courtyard, to which access was had by the usual gateway. The porter's lodge was in the latter, and this functionary, in sabots and shirt-sleeves, was sweeping out the entrance when the police arrived in a cab, which they ordered to wait at the door.

      "M. Gascoigne?" asked the agent.

      "On the first floor, number forty-three," replied the porter, without looking up. "Monsieur has but just returned," he went on. "Knock gently, or you may disturb him in his first sleep."

      "We shall disturb him in any case," said the police-officer, gruffly. "Justice cannot wait."

      "The police!" cried the porter, now recognising his visitors for the first time. "What has happened, in Heaven's name?"

      "Stand aside; we have no time to gossip," replied the agent, as he passed on.

      The occupant of No. 43 upon the first floor was pacing his room with agitated steps—a young man with fair complexion and light curly hair; but his blue eyes were clouded, and his fresh, youthful face was drawn and haggard. His attire, too—English, like his aspect—was torn and dishevelled, his voluminous neckcloth was disarranged, his waistcoat had lost several buttons, and there were stains—dark purple stains—upon sleeves and smallclothes.

      "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. On the threshold of No. 43 the officer named Jules said—

      "Your key, monsieur—the key of your room. I will take charge of it. Monsieur the Judge will no doubt make a searching perquisition, and no one must enter it till then."

      The door was locked, M. Jules put the key in his pocket, and the party went down to the cab, which was driven off rapidly to the depôt of the Préfecture.

      Here the usual formalities were gone through. Rupert Gascoigne, as the Englishman was called, was interrogated, searched, deprived of money, watch, penknife, and pencil-case; his description was noted down, and then he was asked whether he would go into the common prison, or pay for the accommodation of the pistole or private "side."

      For sixteen sous daily they gave him a room to himself, with a little iron cot, a chair, and a table. Another franc or two got him his breakfast and dinner, and he was allowed to enjoy them with such appetite as he could command.

      No one came near him till next morning, when he was roused from the heavy sleep that had only come to him after dawn by a summons to appear before the Juge d'instruction.

      He was led by two policemen to a little room, barely furnished, with one great bureau, or desk, in the centre, at which sat the judge, his back to the window. On one side of him was a smaller desk for the clerk, and exactly opposite a chair for the accused, so arranged that the light beat full upon his face.

      "Sit down," said the judge, abruptly.

      He was a stern-looking man, dressed all in black, still young, with a cold and impassive face, the extreme pallor of which was heightened by his close-cut, coal-black hair, and his small, piercing, beady black eyes.

      "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

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