When he headed for the gate, the largest of the three, a black-bearded man, stepped in front of him. The man was holding a sheet of paper-real paper, no doubt from the felter to whom Padway had taught the art—in front of him and reading out loud to himself: "medium height, brown hair and eyes, large nose, short beard. Speaks with an accent." He looked up sharply. "Are you Martinus Paduei?"
"Sic. Quis est?"
"You're under arrest. Will you come along quietly?"
"What? Who—What for—"
"Order of the municipal prefect. Sorcery."
"But . . . but—Hey! You can't—"
"I said quietly."
The other two men had moved up on each side of Padway, and each took an arm and started to walk him along the street. When he resisted, a short bludgeon appeared in the hand of one. Padway looked around frantically. Hermann was already out of sight. Fritharik was not to be seen; no doubt he was snoring as usual. Padway filled his lungs to shout; the man on his right tightened his grip and raised the bludgeon threateningly. Padway didn't shout.
They marched him down the Argiletum to the old jail below the Record Office on the Capitoline. He was still in somewhat of a daze as the clerk demanded his name, age, and address. All he could think of was that he had heard somewhere that you were entitled to telephone your lawyer before being locked up. And that information seemed hardly useful in the present circumstances.
A small, snapping Italian who had been lounging on a bench got up. "What's this, a sorcery case involving a foreigner? Sounds like a national case to me."