"Monsieur is enamoured of Mademoiselle. I have watched you both for two
days past, and I know that you are aware of her address in England."
This man had actually been watching us, while we had been all
unconscious of espionage! Fierce anger again rose within me. I
admitted to myself that I had acted foolishly in associating with a man
whom I knew to be a fugitive from justice; but it certainly never
occurred to me that I might be subjected to such an ordeal as that I was
undergoing.
Alternatively threatening, coaxing, warning, and gesticulating, Tramu, a
past-master in the art of interrogation, cross-examined me until the
first rose-flush of dawn showed through the window. But he obtained
nothing more from me. I told him frankly that, as he refused to give me
any information, I, on my part, would remain dumb.
His annoyance was apparent. He had expected me to meekly relate all I
knew, but instead he found that I could be as evasive in my answers as
he was clever in putting his questions. In turn quite half a dozen
police officials entered the room and regarded me with considerable
curiosity, until in anger I cried--
"This action of yours, Monsieur Tramu, is disgraceful! I know this is
your abominable French police system, but I demand that word of my
arrest be sent to the British Consul, with whom I shall lodge
complaint."
"My dear m'sieur," laughed the man with the tiny red button in his
lapel, "that will be quite unnecessary. I think at this late hour we
may now! dispense with your further presence. You are free to go;" and
addressing a man in uniform, he added, "Bring in the chauffeur."
I turned upon my heel and left the room, but as I went along the
corridor I saw at the farther end Harris seated between two uniformed
officers.
Surely they would obtain no information from him, for he had only been
engaged for the tour, and knew nothing further of Harvey Shaw or of Asta
except--ah! he might know their address at Lydford!
So I shouted along the corridor to him:
"Harris! Don't tell them Mr Shaw's address in England, whatever you
do."
"Right you are, sir," he replied cheerily. "This is a funny job, ain't
it, sir? They arrested me in bed."
"Where's Mr Shaw?"
"Don't know, sir. I suppose he and Miss Asta are in here somewhere,"
was his reply, as they ushered him into the room where the great Tramu
awaited him.
On my return to the hotel the sleepy night-porter admitted me.
No; he had seen nothing of Monsieur Shaw or of Mademoiselle.
Hastily I ascended the stairs to our suite of apartments, but they were
not there. The beds had not been slept in, but their baggage had been
piled up--evidently by the police, in readiness for removal and
examination. The drawers and wardrobes had evidently been searched
after their arrest, for the rooms were in great disorder.
In my own room, during my absence, everything had been turned
topsy-turvy. The lock of my steel dispatch-box had been broken and its
contents turned out upon the bed. In France, when the police make a
domiciliary visit, they certainly do it most thoroughly.
Was it possible that in examining the effects of Shaw and Asta the
police had ascertained the address of their hiding-place in England?
I stood in the centre of the room gazing at the heap of papers and
letters upon the bed, apprehensive and bewildered.
Returning below, I induced the big Swiss night-porter to rouse the
manager; and some ten minutes later the latter came to me in trousers
and coat, evidently not in a very good-humour at being disturbed.