LITMIR.BIZ

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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 occupation and position in life?"

      "I am a gentleman, living on my means."

      "It is false." An angry flush rose to Gascoigne's face as the judge thus gave him the lie. "It is false—you are a professional gambler—a Greek—a sharper, with no ostensible means!"

      "Pardon me, monsieur; you are quite misinformed. I could prove to you ----"

      "It would be useless; the police have long known and watched you."

      "Such espionage is below contempt," cried Gascoigne, indignantly.

      "Silence! Do not dare to question the conduct of the authorities. It is the visit of persons of your stamp to Paris that renders such precautions necessary."

      "If you believe all you hear from your low agents, with their lying, scandalous reports—"

      "Be careful, prisoner; your demeanour will get you into trouble. Our information about you is accurate and trustworthy. Judge for yourself."

      Gascoigne looked incredulous.

      "Listen; you arrived in Paris three months ago, accompanied by a young demoiselle whom you had decoyed from her home."

      "She was my wife."

      "Yes; you married her after your arrival here. The official records of the 21st arrondisement prove that—married her without her parents' consent."

      "That is not so. They approved."

      "How could they? Your wife's father is French vice-consul at Gibraltar. Her mother is dead. Neither was present at your marriage; how, then, could they approve?"

      Gascoigne did not answer.

      "On your first arrival you were well provided with funds—the proceeds, no doubt, of some nefarious scheme; a run of luck at the tables; the plunder of some pigeon—"

      "The price of my commission in the English Army."

      "Bah! You never were in the English Army."

      "I can prove it."

      "I shall not believe you. Being in funds, I say, you lived riotously, stayed at one of the

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