"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 appetite,
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 passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.
"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 passage, 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 assist him to alight, but,
pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up
against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the
passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance 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, embarrassed, 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 principal 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.
"Oh," observed the detective to himself, "it seems she's playing a
deeper game than I thought."
"Do you know whether she has left Paris?" he asked of the clerk, to whom
he was known as a police agent.
"I really don't. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the
number."
"You didn't hear the cabman receive any orders?" The clerk shook his
head.
"Ah, that is unfortunate," observed the detective, perplexed. "Would
not any one be likely to know where they went?"
"No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out."
The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paper
in the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed it
in his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a small
cafe in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he had
displayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greater
promptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fix
upon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husband
so mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise,
he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen as
soon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Prefecture. Now,
however, he was baffled.
Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise she
would not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for her
husband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficient
evidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover,
that she was desirous of hiding herself.
He remained at the cafe only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe,
then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Prefecture and consulted his
chief.
From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within an
hour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from the
hotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, which
started at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St.
Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.
Monsieur Chemerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object of
stopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathless
he alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.
In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search.
Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive at
Quevy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.
He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.
"_Diable_! She's beaten us!" he cried with chagrin. "She's crossed the
frontier and escaped!" At that moment one of his colleagues joined him.
"We're too late," said Chemerault disappointedly. "She's got clear
away. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case than
we imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and she
turns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made a
very important capture."
"Who is she?" asked his companion.
"Well, her name is Valerie--not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I was
certain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would apply
for her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition."
"Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St.
Lazare, wasn't it--that celebrated case of yours?"
"Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now,
after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quite
unexpectedly," replied the detective. "To-morrow I shall recommence my
inquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me,
and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it up
satisfactorily."
His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left the
station, and directed their steps towards the Quai de l'Horloge.