A pair of handcuffs were fastened to his wrists with marvellous celerity, and he was swung into a chair.

"I don't know whether this is a bit of gammon, Mr Pradelle," said the sergeant sharply, "but I never lose a chance."

He paid not the slightest heed to the other occupants of the room, but ran to the window, threw it open, and called to some one below but only his last words were heard by those inside.

"Quick! first one you see, and I'll give you a shilling."

The sergeant closed the window and crossed to Pradelle.

"If it's a trick it will do you no good. You see, to begin with, it has brought you those."

"I don't care," said Pradelle, glowering at Uncle Luke. "It will take some of the pride out of him, and I shan't go alone."

"It is a trick, sergeant. Take the scoundrel away."

"Must make sure, sir. Sorry for the lady, but she may have been deceived that horrible night, and there's more in this than I can understand. Your friend be long, sir?"

"Mr Leslie? I expected him back with you."

"Mr Leslie went on out into the street, sir. Here, I have it. He has been in hiding down your way, and came up with the lady there."

"That's it, sergeant, you're a 'cute one," said Pradelle with a laugh.

"Who has been in hiding?"

"Your nephew, sir. I see it all now. What a fool I've been."

"My nephew!--Not dead?"

"Harry--brother!" moaned Louise. "I could do no more. Ah!"

Uncle Luke fell a-trembling as he caught the half-insensible girl's hand, gazing wildly at the sergeant the while.

"Look here, Pradelle, no more nonsense. Will he come back?"

"If you keep quiet of course. Not if he sees you."

"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the sergeant, crossing to the door as he heard a step; and hurrying out he returned directly with a constable in uniform.

"Stop!" he said shortly, and he nodded to the prisoner. "Very sorry, Mr Vine, sir," he then said; "but you must stay here for a bit. I am going down to wait outside."

"But Parkins!" cried Uncle Luke, agitatedly, "I cannot. If this is true--that poor boy--no, no, he must not be taken now."

"Too late, sir, to talk like that," cried the sergeant. "You stop there."

"Yes," said Pradelle, as the door closed on the sergeant's retiring figure; "pleasant for you. I always hated you for a sneering old crab.

It's your time to feel now."

"Silence, you scoundrel!" cried Uncle Luke, fiercely. "She's coming to."

Uncle Luke was wrong, for Louise only moaned slightly, and then relapsed into insensibility, from which a doctor who was fetched did not seem to recall her, and hour after hour of patient watching followed, but Harry did not return.

"The bird has been scared, sir," said Parkins, entering the room at last. "I can't ask you to stay longer. There's a cab at the door to take the lady to your hotel."

"But are you sure--that--my poor boy lives?"

"Certain, sir, now. I've had his description from the people down below. I shall have him before to-night."

"L'homme propose, mais--"

Five minutes later Louise, quite insensible, was being borne to the hotel; Mr Pradelle, to an establishment offering similar advantages as to bed and board, but with the freedom of ingress and egress left out.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

DIOGENES DISCOVERS.

"Blame you, my dear? No, no, of course not. Then you knew nothing about it till that night when he came to the window?"

"Oh, no, uncle, dear."

Louise started up excitedly from the couch at the hotel upon which she was lying, while the old man trotted up and down the room.

"Now, now, now," he cried piteously, but with exceeding tenderness as he laid his hand upon her brow, and pressed her back till her head rested on the pillow. "Your head's getting hot again, and the doctor said you were not to be excited in any way. There, let's talk about fishing, or sea-anemones, or something else."

"No, no, uncle dear, I must talk about this, or I shall be worse."

"Then for goodness' sake let's talk about it," he said eagerly, as he took a chair by her side and held her hand.

"You don't blame me then--very much."

"Well, say not very much; but it's not very pleasant to have a nephew who makes one believe he's dead, and a niece who pretends that she has bolted with a scampish Frenchman."

"Uncle, uncle," she cried piteously, "You see it has been a terrible upset for me, while as to your poor father--"

"But, uncle, dear, what could I do?"

"Well, when you were writing, you might have said a little more."

"I wrote what poor Harry forced me to write. What else could I say?"

"You see, it has upset us all so terribly. George--I mean your father-- will never forgive you."

"But you do not put yourself in my place, uncle. Think of how Harry was situated; think of his horror of being taken. Indeed, he was half mad."

"No; quite, Louy; and you seem to have caught the complaint."

"I hardly knew what I did. It was like some terrible dream. Harry frightened me then."