So far as the feeble light permitted, he made out the room to contain the furnishings of an office, and by degrees, as his mind cleared, he recalled with a start his arrest.
He was at the police station.
But why in this particular room? The walls were hung with sporting prints. Bookshelves, a comfortable sofa, upon which he had spent the night, all these indicated nothing less than the private office of the chief.
And then he recalled with what consideration he had been conducted hither. Evidently they took him for an intimate friend of the King. Nevertheless, he was under arrest for murder, or at least as an accomplice to a murder.
"After all," he thought, "the truth will come to light, they'll capture the murderer and my innocence will be established.
"Besides, didn't the King promise to see me through. Probably before this he has already taken steps for my release."
"Is there anyone here?"
Scarcely had Fandor spoken when a man entered, who, after a profound bow to the journalist, drew the curtains apart.
"You are awake, Monsieur?"