He had not long to wait, for there came the distant sound of screaming and fighting. It came nearer and nearer, till at last, with a resounding crash, the picture over the panelled door came down with shattered glass and broken frame, the door swung open noiselessly and easily, and in the aperture stood the flushed and triumphant figure of Mr. Narkom.
"Right was I, old chap?" said Cleek in sharp, concise tones, at the sound of which Mr. Belthouse started violently.
"Right as a trivet. Just moving it into the cart. Petrie and Hammond have got her——"
This fact was now a self-evident one, as the stalwart officers just named appeared in the doorway, between them a struggling woman, in whose oaths in English and fluent French, disarranged hair and torn dress, Mr. Belthouse could hardly recognize the competent, "estimable" caretaker. But before he could speak a word there came a fresh interruption.
"Hallo! What is this? They tell me you want me, Mr. Belthouse," said a voice from the main doorway of the gallery.
"Doctor Montret!" said the secretary. "Come in, by all means. I cannot explain what this means, but——"
"Save yourself, Jules," shrieked the woman. "Quick, fly! I was not in time. It is Cleek, see, he is here! Fly, fly——"
"So we have caught the pair of you, eh?" cried Cleek, who had silently worked his way round so that he stood between the sallow-faced, black-haired stranger, addressed as Doctor Montret, and the door.
"Quick, boys. Mr. Narkom, help me here," and there was a quick struggle, then the sound of clicking handcuffs. Cleek stood over his captive triumphantly, and gave a little laugh as he unrolled the wet cloths from his uninjured wrist.
"So my little trick succeeded, eh, Jules Berjet? And you, too, Marie Peret?"