“Mr. Quadling, late banker, of Rome. I have not the slightest doubt of it. I recognize him beyond all question.”
“That will do. Silence, sir!” This to Quadling. “No observations. I too can recognize you now as the person who called himself Ripaldi an hour or two ago. Denial is useless. Let him be searched; thoroughly, you understand, La Pêche? Call in your other men; he may resist.”
They gave the wretched man but scant consideration, and in less than three minutes had visited every pocket, examined every secret receptacle, and practically turned him inside out.
After this there could no longer be any doubt of his identity, still less of his complicity in the crime.
First among the many damning evidences of his guilt was the missing pocketbook of the porter of the sleeping-car. Within was the train card and the passengers’ tickets, all the papers which the man Groote had lost so unaccountably. They had, of course, been stolen from his person with the obvious intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder. Next, in another inner pocket was Quadling’s own wallet, with his own visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name; above all, a thick sheaf of bank-notes of all nationalities—English, French, Italian, and amounting in total value to several thousands of pounds.
“Well, do you still deny? Bah! it is childish, useless, mere waste of breath. At last we have penetrated the mystery. You may as well confess. Whether or no, we have enough to convict you by independent testimony,” said the Judge, severely. “Come, what have you to say?”
But Quadling, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute. He was in the toils, the net had closed round him, they should have no assistance from him.
“Come, speak out; it will be best. Remember, we have means to make you—”
“Will you interrogate him further, M. Beaumont le Hardi? Here, at once?”
“No, let him be removed to the Prefecture; it will be more convenient; to my private office.”