“Harris! Don’t tell them Mr Shaw’s address in England, whatever you do.”
“Right you are, sir,” he replied cheerily. “This is a funny job, ain’t it, sir? They arrested me in bed.”
“Where’s Mr Shaw?”
“Don’t know, sir. I suppose he and Miss Asta are in here somewhere,” was his reply, as they ushered him into the room where the great Tramu awaited him.
On my return to the hotel the sleepy night-porter admitted me.
No; he had seen nothing of Monsieur Shaw or of Mademoiselle.
Hastily I ascended the stairs to our suite of apartments, but they were not there. The beds had not been slept in, but their baggage had been piled up—evidently by the police, in readiness for removal and examination. The drawers and wardrobes had evidently been searched after their arrest, for the rooms were in great disorder.
In my own room, during my absence, everything had been turned topsy-turvy. The lock of my steel dispatch-box had been broken and its contents turned out upon the bed. In France, when the police make a domiciliary visit, they certainly do it most thoroughly.
Was it possible that in examining the effects of Shaw and Asta the police had ascertained the address of their hiding-place in England?
I stood in the centre of the room gazing at the heap of papers and letters upon the bed, apprehensive and bewildered.