This telegram, however, did not reach Jerusalem before Jim had left. Therefore, when he alighted from a cab in Berkeley Square some days later and knocked eagerly at the door of Sir Felix’s house, he was surprised to find it opened by a strange man.
When the hall door had closed behind him again, another man advanced, and asked:
“I believe you are Mr Jannaway?”
“That’s my name,” replied Jim. “Where’s the gov’nor? Who the dickens are you?”
“I’m Inspector Attwell, Criminal Investigation Department,” replied the other, “and I arrest you, on a warrant granted in France, for the wilful murder of Henri Laroche, banker of Rue de Rouen, Bordeaux, on December 6, 1907.”
Jannaway stood as though turned to stone. His face was bloodless, his mouth wide-open.
“You—you’ve made a mistake—a very big mistake!” he managed to exclaim with a sorry attempt to laugh. “Where’s the gov’nor—I mean Sir Felix Challas? I must see him at once.”
“I’m afraid, Mr Jannaway, you’ll never see him again,” replied the officer. “Yesterday he was arrested in Breslau on a charge of complicity with you in the crime at Bordeaux, but an hour later he poisoned himself in the police-cell. It’ll all be in the papers this afternoon, I expect.”
“Suicide!” gasped the adventurer, utterly staggered.
“Yes, it seems that the dead man’s daughter, Louise Laroche, whom you believed you had also killed, though ruined and destitute, has searched and found you both out, and made a startling statement to the Préfet de Police of Paris. Hence this warrant. But, come along. I must warn you that any statement you make may be used against you upon your trial.”