“I am the Duke of Belleville,” answered the young man.
“The Duke of Belle-ville!” cried the Inspector, his manner showing an increased deference. “I beg your Grace’s——”
“The name,” said the Duke, “is pronounced Bevvle—to rhyme with devil.”
The Inspector looked at him scornfully.
“Your turn will come, my man,” said he, and, turning again to the young man, he continued: “Do you charge him with stealing this cup?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“I imagine you do,” said the young man, with a laugh. “He’s one of your own policeman.”
The Inspector stepped back and turned up the gas in his passage. Then he scrutinised the Duke’s features.
“One of my men?” he cried. “Your Grace is mistaken. I have never seen the man.”