The man shrugged his shoulders significantly, and left his sentence unfinished.
“Of what offence am I guilty? Why, I’ve only been in Paris a few days.”
“We know that. You arrived with madame, and have since stayed at the Hôtel Continental.”
“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”
Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile—
“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”
“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.
“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”
“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”
Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows—when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.