the meaning of thisextraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since theystarted, but the detective, Chemerault, who sat opposite, veryattentively examined the prisoner's features, as if trying to read thedepths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turnedhis head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive ofresentment.
They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossedthe Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l'Horloge, and turning off to theright, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.
"Here we are, m'sieur," said the chief detective, opening the door andspringing out.
"You said that you would take me to the Commissary," exclaimedTrethowen, aroused from his reflections.
"It is all the same," replied the detective; "we are here, at thePrefecture of Police."
Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, thegloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, andthrew himself back into the cab. He understood the truth.Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.
One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but,pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself upagainst the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into thepassage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes.Chemerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked besidehim. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the officesof inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to theoffice of the chief of the criminal investigation service.
"Which way shall I go?" asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of thenarrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant treadof detectives and criminals.
"Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor."
Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted onwalking behind--that their politeness was merely prudence.
They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, andmeagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomedchairs. Chemerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down withoututtering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, andthought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.
The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference.They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similarpredicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued theirwriting.
The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answeringaffirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one fromthe private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping atthe door, entered.
Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after givingsome instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany himinto the presence of the chief.
During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective's exit andthe prisoner's entry, the director of criminal investigations preparedhimself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantagealways lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode ofattack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points hisreplies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, theother confused, embarrassed, and dreading lest he should make any replythat may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.
The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph whichChemerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from apigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spreadthem out before him.
Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced,conducted by the detectives.
"You may be seated, m'sieur," said the director of criminalinvestigations politely.
Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waitedto be questioned.
The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions fora few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had todeal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he hadentertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. Withthat special memory for faces which an expert engaged in theinvestigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised thefeatures of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examinehim and the principal points for confirmation.
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Late that afternoon Monsieur Chemerault called at the bureau of theHotel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he hada note to deliver to her.
"Trethowen," repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him."Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid."
"Gone!"
"Yes. Madame's husband went out about eleven, she being already out.Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill,and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back."
"Perhaps it contains her address," remarked the detective, glancing atthe superscription. "I'll see." Opening it, he found to his dismaythat it contained only a blank sheet of paper.
"Oh," observed the detective to himself, "it seems she's playing adeeper game than I thought."
"Do you know whether she has left Paris?" he asked of the clerk, to whomhe was known as a police agent.
"I really don't. The maid called the cab and I did not notice thenumber."
"You didn't hear the cabman receive any orders?" The clerk shook hishead.
"Ah, that is unfortunate," observed the detective, perplexed. "Wouldnot any one be likely to know where they went?"
"No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out."
The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paperin the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed itin his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a smallcafe in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he haddisplayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greaterpromptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fixupon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husbandso mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise,he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen assoon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Prefecture. Now,however, he was baffled.
Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise shewould not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for herhusband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficientevidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover,that she was desirous of hiding herself.
He remained at the cafe only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe,then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Prefecture and consulted hischief.
From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within anhour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from thehotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, whichstarted at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St.Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.
Monsieur Chemerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object ofstopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathlesshe alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.
In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search.Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive atQuevy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.
He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.
"_Diable_! She's beaten us!" he cried with chagrin. "She's crossed thefrontier and escaped!" At that moment one of his colleagues joined him."We're too late," said Chemerault disappointedly. "She's got clearaway. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case thanwe imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and sheturns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made avery important capture."
/> "Who is she?" asked his companion.
"Well, her name is Valerie--not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I wascertain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would applyfor her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition."
"Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St.Lazare, wasn't it--that celebrated case of yours?"
"Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now,after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quiteunexpectedly," replied the detective. "To-morrow I shall recommence myinquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me,and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it upsatisfactorily."
His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left thestation, and directed their