“What is your name, sir?” asked the commissary.
“Linton!” was the brief reply.
“That's the man,” whispered a voice from behind the commissary; and, at the same instant, that functionary approached, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder, said,—
“I arrest you, sir, on the charge of murder.”
“Murder!” repeated Linton, with a sneer that he could not merge into a laugh. “This is a sorry jest, sir.”
“You will find it sad earnest!” said a deep voice.
Linton turned round, and straight in front of him stood Roland Cashel, who, with bent brows and compressed lips, seemed struggling to repress the passion that worked within him.
“I say, Frobisher, are you omitted in the indictment?” cried Linton, with a sickly attempt to laugh; “or has our buccaneering friend forgotten to stigmatize you for the folly of having known him?”
“He is in my custody,” said a gruff English voice, in reply to some observation of the commissary; and a short, stout-built man made a gesture to another in the crowd to advance.