“You are not,” I said.
“Am I not under arrest?”
I stepped forward and placed him formally under arrest, touching him slightly on the shoulder. He did not move a muscle, yet, beneath the thin cloth of his coat I could divine a frame of iron.
“Your creed is one of non-resistance to violence,” I said—“is it not?”
“Yes,” he replied. I saw that gray ring around the pale pupil of his eyes contracting, little by little.
“You have not asked me why I arrest you,” I suggested, “and, monsieur, I must ask you to step back from that table—quick!—don’t move!—not one finger!”
For a second he looked into the barrel of my pistol with concentrated composure, then glanced at the table-drawer which he had jerked open. A revolver lay shining among the litter of glass tubes and papers in the drawer.
The Countess, too, saw the revolver and turned an astonished face to my prisoner.
“Who brought you here?” asked Buckhurst, quietly of me.
“I did,” said the Countess, her voice almost breaking. “Tell this man and his government that you are ready to face every charge against your honor! There is a dreadful mistake; they—they think you are—”