"Who in hell is that?" Roger burst out in irritable annoyance.
It proved to be the valet, obsequious and apologetic, yet full of importance.
"There is a sergent-de-ville to speak with Monsieur," he informed them mysteriously, but with a Frenchman's full appreciation of the ruptured tête-à-tête.
"I'll have to go, I suppose," Roger informed her. "But I'll get it disposed of as quickly as possible."
Ten minutes went slowly by. She had tried not to let Roger see how much she dreaded the prospect of the witness-box. In her present state of nerves she felt she might be guilty of a hundred contradictions and indiscretions, if faced with the basilisk eyes and over-powering personality of the man she feared. At the very thought of him she began to tremble all over as though with ague. It was perfectly absurd, of course, but there it was. Still now, if she chose, she could face the trying experience as a married woman, as Roger Clifford's wife. That security somehow promised her a new strength. Roger's wife! And in a fortnight's time! A different sort of tremor seized her, a frisson of exquisite joy….
The door opened. Roger came towards her, took her hands again in his, and looked at her closely. She grew apprehensive of what he had to tell her.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"Don't be frightened. They have caught Sartorius. They captured him aboard a fruit-boat in the harbour, about an hour ago. The boat was under sailing orders, bound for a port in Morocco; they think the captain was a friend of Sartorius's. Anyway, they surrounded the doctor in his cabin. He didn't put up any fight—simply looked at them, blew his nose, and followed them up without a word."
She stared at him blankly, wondering what more he had to say.
"Yes—go on. What then?"