But Monsieur Bordier was crying like a child, and kept on his way, without answering.
The narrow corridor was now filled with hurrying, excited figures in gauze and tinsel, sham armor, and painted faces. They pressed Braith back, but he struggled and fought his way to the door.
A Sergeant de Ville shouldered through the crowd. He was dragging a woman along by the arm. Another policeman came behind, urging her forward. Somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. Braith’s eyes met hers. She cowered still lower.
A slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. A red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder.
“Pardon! I think this is Mr Emanuel Pick.”
“No!” stammered the man, and started to run.
Braith blocked his way. The red-faced detective was at his side.
“So, you are Mr Emanuel Pick!”
“No!” gasped the other.
“He lies! He lies!” yelled the woman, from the floor.