“In that case we’ll arrest him at once. He won’t elude us this time.”
The clerk had brought the formidable leather-bound volume and placed it upon a table, with the usual injunction that no extracts were allowed to be cut from it. Hugh was bending over it excitedly, and turning the pages to find the issue of 10th May, when he heard a voice behind him inquire—
“M’sieur Trethowen, I believe?”
Lifting his head in surprise, he faced his interrogator. “Yes,” he replied in French, “that’s my name, although I have not the pleasure of knowing yours, m’sieur.”
“It scarcely will be a pleasure,” the man replied, grinning sardonically. “I’m Paul Chémerault of the Detective Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest,” he added, producing a folded paper from his overcoat pocket.
“My arrest!” cried Trethowen incredulously. “What for, pray?”
He glanced in dismay at the two other men, who had now stepped up, and stood on either side of him.
“If m’sieur will come with us to the Bureau the charge will be explained. It is scarcely necessary to read it here and create a scene, is it?”
“I am an Englishman. By what right do you arrest me when I have committed no offence?” Hugh asked indignantly.
“That you are English we are aware, and also that you live at Coombe Hall, in the county of Cornwall. But as to your innocence—”