Between us we managed to force the fellow to walk along with us; but a few yards from my door, he made an effort to break away, and only M. de Lambert’s agility checked him. My companion caught him in his arms, and there was a fierce struggle before he submitted and walked before us to the house, where Pierrot took him in charge. I had him taken to an upper room, and, calling for lights, sat down and looked at him. M. de Lambert was handing his cloak and sword to Touchet, when he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I have made some mistake,” he said; “this is not my cloak.”
Looking around, I saw Touchet holding up a dark brown velvet cloak with an enamelled clasp.
“I must have picked up the wrong one in the ante-room,” M. de Lambert remarked in an annoyed tone.
I had been examining the garment, and all at once recognized it.
“It is the Polish envoy’s,” I said; “I noticed the clasp.”
“Ah, to be sure,” replied M. de Lambert. “I remember that he laid his cloak aside just before I assumed mine. I have not profited by the exchange. Take it back to the Kremlin, Touchet, and bring me mine.”
While he spoke, I saw a sudden flash of intelligence in the prisoner’s expression which convinced me that he took a curious interest in the cloak. He was a short man, slight but well formed, with a broad stolid face, and his hair and complexion were light, his eyes being pale blue. His garments, although plain, were not poor, and he had nothing of the appearance of a common cut-purse, neither did he look a Russian. A sudden inspiration coming to me, I took the opportunity when his attention was riveted upon M. de Lambert to address him abruptly in Swedish, with which language I was imperfectly acquainted.
“How long is it,” I said, “since you left Sweden?”
“Not two months,” he answered mechanically, and then, realizing that he had betrayed himself, stood staring at me like a trapped tiger, while I laughed. He had fallen so easily into my snare.