The sergeant smiled.
"In his own language, very," he said drily. "When I searched him, he said a great number of things which were probably very rude."
T. B. nodded.
"I'll see him," he said.
A gaoler led him down a long corridor.
On either side were long stone-painted doors, each with a little steel wicket.
Stopping before one door, he inserted his bright key in the lock, snapped back a polished bolt, and the door swung open.
A man who was sitting on a wooden bench with his head in his hands, jumped to his feet as the Assistant-Commissioner entered, and poured forth a volume of language.
"Softly, softly," said T. B. "You speak French, my friend."
"Oui, monsieur," said the man. "Though I am Spanish."