"None whatever."

"In that case we'll arrest him at once. He won't elude us this time."

The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire--

"M'sieur Trethowen, I believe?"

Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. "Yes," he replied in French, "that's my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m'sieur."

"It scarcely will be a pleasure," the man replied, grinning sardonically. "I'm Paul Chemerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest," he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.

"My arrest!" cried Trethowen incredulously. "What for, pray?"

He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.

"If m'sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?"

"I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?" Hugh asked indignantly.

"That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence--"

The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.

"Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I've only been in Paris a few days."

"We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hotel Continental."

"Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations."

Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile--

"M'sieur will not require to use the volume now."

"Will you tell me of what I am accused?" asked Trethowen warmly.

"No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention."

"I do not see why I should," argued Hugh angrily. "Take care, young fellow," said the detective, without getting at all excited; "you are spoiling your affair." This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen's anger. "We have a cab outside," continued the officer, "and we will drive to the Commissary's. You will calm yourself there. He'll soon settle the business, for he's a good-natured man. Come along."

Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysees to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appet.i.te, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners' windows--when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.

Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chemerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner's features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.

They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l'Horloge, and turning off to the right, and pa.s.sing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow pa.s.sage.

"Here we are, m'sieur," said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.

"You said that you would take me to the Commissary," exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.

"It is all the same," replied the detective; "we are here, at the Prefecture of Police."

Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy pa.s.sage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth.

Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.

One of the detectives graciously offered to a.s.sist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he pa.s.sed into the pa.s.sage with his head erect and a gleam of a.s.surance in his eyes.

Chemerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.

"Which way shall I go?" asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of the narrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant tread of detectives and criminals.

"Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor."

Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted on walking behind--that their politeness was merely prudence.

They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, and meagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs. Chemerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down without uttering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, and thought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.

The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference.

They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similar predicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued their writing.

The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answering affirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one from the private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping at the door, entered.

Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after giving some instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany him into the presence of the chief.

During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective's exit and the prisoner's entry, the director of criminal investigations prepared himself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantage always lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode of attack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points his replies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, the other confused, embarra.s.sed, and dreading lest he should make any reply that may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.

The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph which Chemerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from a pigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spread them out before him.

Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced, conducted by the detectives.

"You may be seated, m'sieur," said the director of criminal investigations politely.

Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waited to be questioned.

The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions for a few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had to deal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he had entertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. With that special memory for faces which an expert engaged in the investigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised the features of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examine him and the princ.i.p.al points for confirmation.

Late that afternoon Monsieur Chemerault called at the bureau of the Hotel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.

"Trethowen," repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him.

"Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid."

"Gone!"

"Yes. Madame's husband went out about eleven, she being already out.

Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back."

"Perhaps it contains her address," remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. "I'll see." Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.