“Who signed—what—” his eyes had fallen on the signature of the second witness, “Alfred Pointer, Chief Inspector, New Scotland Yard, London.”
“Evening, Mr. Beale.” The signatory in person stepped into the room, bowed civilly, and passed on through the other door. “Come this way, Daru. M. Meunier wishes to talk with the gentleman.”
Christine made a motion to follow, but the Frenchman stopped her.
“By no means, mademoiselle. You represent the interests of your friend. Pray be seated here. Now, monsieur, let us have an understanding. These papers belong to me. Thank you”—as he took them over—“They are worth much to you?”
“It's a trap.” Mr. Beale looked dangerous. “I see! It's a damned trap.”
“But exactly! And behold you in it! In the very middle of it; and the trap, my friend, is a good one, very strong. Now, to begin again—on the one hand there is the 'phone there by mademoiselle, and the Préfecture, and a French prison——”
“I guess not! I'm an American, an editor of——”
The Frenchman shrugged amused shoulders.
“You may be an American, Monsieur, but I am a Frenchman, and this is France. I can assure you that we are no respector of persons here. You have broken French laws, and in a French prison you will assuredly stay for an unpleasantly long term unless you are shrewd enough to accept my terms.”
“Well?” jerked out Mr. Beale.