"Somebody in the house," the sergeant explained sketchily. "Caretaker or something of that kind, or so we imagined. Call on the telephone."
René broke out into sudden exultation. He saw it all now. He had been lulled into a false position of security, and Leona had slunk away and called for assistance on the telephone. He had not known that there was such a thing in the house. How she must have smiled at him in her sleeves all the time, knowing that his capture was certain, and that she had her own avenue of escape.
"What's this about a woman?" the sergeant asked.
René checked himself. He grew suddenly calm, but the effort threw him into a violent perspiration. Well, his time should come yet.
"Take me back to Holloway," he said, sullenly, "and ask your Prout to see me in the morning. Say it will be worth his while."
Prout came up smiling in the course of the next afternoon. He was disposed to chaff his prisoner in a mild kind of way.
"The experience was worth the money," the latter said. "My friend had arranged everything. I got our dear Balmayne in our clutches within an hour. And I said to him, 'Dog, where is Leona Lalage?' And he professed not to know. But we had means of our own, you understand, to make him speak. And he spoke at last. He told me where to find her. And where do you think it was?"
"Well," Prout said thoughtfully, "seeing that you were traced to Lytton Avenue, I suppose that you found her there?"
"I did. So you see that she has not escaped from London. Perhaps you knew that before you came here. Anyway I have told you. And I'll tell you more if you are not aware of it already. Leona Lalage and the Spanish gipsy of the Corner House are one and the same woman."
Prout nodded. All this was no news to him. Lalage paced up and down the cell fiercely. His eyes were full of sullen fire.