But the detective would not suffer this, and interposed, answering abruptly for Sir Charles:
“No. It is impossible. We are going to the Quai l’Horloge. It is an urgent matter.”
The porter knew what the Quai l’Horloge meant, and he guessed intuitively who was speaking. Every Frenchman can recognize a police officer, and has, as a rule, no great opinion of him.
“Very well!” now said the porter, curtly, as he banged the wicket-gate on the retreating cab, and he did not hurry himself in giving the card to Colonel Papillon.
“Does this mean that I am a prisoner?” asked Sir Charles, his gorge rising, as it did easily.
“It means, monsieur, that you are in the hands of justice until your recent conduct has been fully explained,” said the detective, with the air of a despot.
“But I protest—”
“I wish to hear no further observations, monsieur. You may reserve them till you can give them to the right person.”
The General’s temper was sorely ruffled. He did not like it at all; yet what could he do? Prudence gained the day, and after a struggle he decided to submit, lest worse might befall him.
There was, in truth, worse to be encountered. It was very irksome to be in the power of this now domineering little man on his own ground, and eager to show his power. It was with a very bad grace that Sir Charles obeyed the curt orders he received, to leave the cab, to enter at a side door of the Prefecture, to follow this pompous conductor along the long vaulted passages of this rambling building, up many flights of stone stairs, to halt obediently at his command when at length they reached a closed door on an upper story.