He bent and tried to raise it, but found it firmly secured.
“He’s gone!” he cried to the two agents in uniform, who were cyclists, wearing the flat-peaked caps with the arms of the City of Paris upon them. “Go out and scour all the streets in the neighbourhood. You may catch him yet!”
Without a second’s delay, both men dashed out to do the bidding of their superior officer.
Adolphe Carlier was left with the two agents of the Sûreté—both dark, shrewd little men, broad-shouldered, and short of stature,—while the commissary, who wore the button of the Légion d’Honneur in his overcoat, made a tour of the apartment.
Another agent of police, in plain clothes, entered and saluted.
“Did you see anything of the fugitive, Leblanc?” asked the commissary eagerly.
“Nothing, m’sieur. I came along from the depôt, but met nobody.”
“Search this place,” he said. “There is some stolen stuff hidden in this rat-hole, I expect.”
“I tell you Ralph Ansell has it all,” declared the man held by the two officers, who were now allowing him to bandage up his hand, prior to putting handcuffs upon his wrists. “Arrest Ansell, and you will find everything upon him.”
“Do you live here?” asked the commissary.