"We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us.
Stand back, please!"
The next instant Dupré found himself alone, with the squad and their
prisoner disappearing down a back street. For a moment he stood there
as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could, back to the
theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way. Arriving
at the theatre, he found the lights out, and the manager on the point
of leaving.
"Lemoine has been arrested," he cried; "arrested by a squad of soldiers
whom we met, and they said they acted by order of the President."
The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed
helplessly at Dupré.
"What is the charge?" he said at last.
"That I do not know," answered the actor. "They simply said they were
acting under the President's orders."
"This is bad; as bad as can be," said the manager, looking over his
shoulder, and speaking as if in fear. "Lemoine has been talking
recklessly. I never could get him to realise that he was in Chili, and
that he must not be so free in his speech. He always insisted that this
was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as if
the nineteenth century had anything to do with a South American
Republic."
"You don't imagine," said Dupré, with a touch of pallor coming into his
cheeks, "that this is anything serious. It will mean nothing more than
a day or two in prison at the worst?"