CHAPTER XVI THE ORDERS OF HIS EXCELLENCY

Again Paul sat back without a word. Well, he would hear the extraordinary charge against him, whatever it might be. And, without speaking, they travelled on and on, until they at last entered the Porte St. Paul at Verdun, passed up the Avenue de la Gare, skirting the Palais de Justice into the station yard.

As Paul descended they were met by a third stranger who strolled forward—a man in a heavy travelling coat and a soft Homburg hat.

It was the man who had sat behind him earlier in the evening—the man with the deep lines upon his care-worn brow, who had laughed so heartily—and who a moment later introduced himself as Jules Pierrepont, special commissaire of the Paris Sûreté.

"We have met before?" remarked Paul abruptly.

"Yes, Monsieur Le Pontois," replied the man with a grim smile. "On several occasions lately. It has been my duty to keep observation upon your movements—acting upon orders from Monsieur the Prefect of Police."

And together they entered the dark, deserted station to await the night express for Paris.

Suddenly Paul turned back, saying to the chauffeur in a low, hard voice: "Gallet, to-morrow go and tell madame my wife that I am unexpectedly called to the capital. Tell her—tell her that I will write to her. But, at all hazards, do not let her know the truth that I am under arrest," he added hoarsely.

"That is understood, monsieur," replied the man, saluting. "Neither madame nor anyone else shall know why you have left for Paris."

"I rely upon you," were Paul's parting words, and, turning upon his heel, he accompanied the three men who were in waiting.

Half an hour later he sat in a second-class compartment of the Paris rapide with the three keen-eyed men who had so swiftly effected his arrest.

It was apparent to him now that the reason he had recognised Pierrepont was because that man had maintained vigilant, yet unobtrusive, observation upon him during several of the preceding days, keeping near him in all sorts of ingenious guises and making inquiries concerning him—inquiries instituted for some unexplained cause by the Paris police.

Bitterly he smiled to himself as he gazed upon the faces of his three companions, hard and deep-shadowed beneath the uncertain light. Presently he made some inquiry of Jules Pierrepont, who had now assumed commandership of the party, as to the reason of his arrest.

"I regret, Monsieur Le Pontois," replied the quiet, affable man, "his Excellency does not give us reasons. We obey orders—that is all."

"But surely there is still, even after the war, justice in France!" cried Paul in dismay. "There must be some good reason. One cannot be thus arrested as a criminal without some charge against him—in my case a false one!"

All three men had heard prisoners declare their innocence many times before, therefore they merely nodded assent—it was their usual habit.

"There is, of course, some charge," remarked Pierrepont. "But no doubt monsieur has a perfect answer to it."

"When I know what it is," replied Paul between his teeth, "then I shall meet it bravely, and demand compensation for this outrageous arrest!"

He held his breath, for, with a sinking heart, he realised for the first time the very fact of a serious allegation being made against him by some enemy. If mud is thrown some of it always sticks. What had all his enthusiasm in life profited him? Nothing. He bit his lip when he reflected.

"You have some idea of what is alleged against me, messieurs," the unhappy man exclaimed presently, as the roaring train emerged from a long tunnel. "I see it in your faces. Indeed, you would not have taken the precaution, which you did at the moment of my arrest, of searching me to find firearms. You suspected that I might make an attempt to take my life."

"Merely our habit," replied Pierrepont with a slight smile.

"The charge is a grave one—will you not admit that?"

"Probably it is—or we should not all three have been sent to bring you to Paris," remarked one of the trio.

"You have had access to my dossier—I feel sure you have, monsieur," Paul said, addressing Pierrepont.

"Ah! you are in error. Monsieur le Ministre does not afford me that privilege. I am but the servant of the Sûreté, and no one regrets more than myself the painful duty I have been compelled to perform to-night. I assure you, Monsieur Le Pontois, that I entertain much regret that I have been compelled to drag you away from your home and family thus, to Paris."

"No apology is needed, mon ami," Paul exclaimed quickly, well aware that the detective was merely obeying instructions. "I understand your position perfectly." Then, glancing round at his companions, he added: "You may sleep in peace, messieurs. I give you my word of honour that I will not attempt to escape. Why, indeed, should I? I have committed no wrong!"

One of the men had pulled out a well-worn notebook and was with difficulty writing down the prisoner's words—to be put in evidence against him. Le Pontois realised that; therefore his mouth closed with a snap, and, leaning back in the centre of the carriage, he closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think.

Before leaving Verdun he had seen Pierrepont enter the telegraph bureau—to dispatch a message to the Sûreté, without a doubt. They already knew in Paris that he was under arrest, but at his home they were, happily, still in ignorance. Poor Blanche was asleep, no doubt, by that time, he thought, calm in the belief that he had been delayed and would be home in the early hours.

The fact that he was actually under arrest he regarded with more humour than seriousness, feeling that in the morning explanations would be made and the blunder rectified.

No more honourable or upright man was there in France than Paul Le Pontois, and this order from the Sûreté had held him utterly speechless and astounded. So he sat there hour after hour as the rapide roared westward, until it halted at the great echoing station of Châlons, where all four entered the buffet and hastily swallowed their café-au-lait.

Afterwards they resumed their seats, and the train, with its two long, dusty wagons-lit, moved onward again, with Paris for its goal.

The prisoner said little. He sat calmly reflecting, wondering and wondering what possible charge could be made against him. He had enemies, as every man had, he knew, but he was not aware of anyone who could make an allegation of a character sufficiently grave to warrant his arrest.

Why had it been forbidden that he should wish Blanche farewell? There was some reason for that! He inquired of Pierrepont, who had treated him with such consideration and even respect, but the agent of secret police only replied that in making an arrest of that character they made it a rule never to allow a prisoner to communicate with his family.

"There are several reasons for it," he explained. "One is that very often the prisoner will make a statement to his wife which he will afterwards greatly regret. Again, prisoners have been known to whisper to their wives secret instructions, to order the destruction of papers before we can make a domiciliary visit, or——"

"But you surely will not make a domiciliary visit to my house?" cried Paul, interrupting.

The men exchanged glances.

"At present we cannot tell," Pierrepont replied. "It depends upon what instructions we receive."

"Do you usually make searches?" asked the prisoner, with visions of his own home being desecrated and ransacked.

"Yes, we generally do," the commissaire of police admitted. "As I have explained, it is for that reason we do not allow a prisoner's wife to know that he is under arrest."

"But such an action is abominable!" cried Le Pontois angrily. "That my house should be turned upside down and searched as though I were a common thief, a forger, or a coiner is beyond toleration. I shall demand full inquiry. My friend Carlier shall put an interpellation in the Chamber!"

"Monsieur le Ministre acts upon his own discretion," the detective replied coldly.

"And by so doing sometimes ruins the prospects and the lives of some of our best men," blurted forth the angry prisoner. It was upon the tip of his tongue to say much more in condemnation, but the sight of the man with the notebook caused him to hesitate.

Every word he uttered now would, he knew, be turned against him. He was under arrest—for some crime that he had not committed.

The other passengers by that night express, who included a party of English tourists, little dreamed as they passed up and down the corridor that the smart, good-looking man who wore the button of the Legion d'Honneur, and who sat there with the three quiet, respectable-looking men, was being conveyed to the capital under escort—a man who, by the law of France, was already condemned, was guilty until he could prove his own innocence!

In the cold grey of dawn they descended at last at the great bare Gare de l'Est in Paris. Paul felt tired, cramped and unshaven, but of necessity entered a taxi called by one of his companions, and, accompanied by Pierrepont and the elder of his assistants, was driven along through the cheerless, deserted streets to the Sûreté.

As he entered the side door of the ponderous building the police officer on duty saluted his escort.

His progress across France had been swift and secret.

What, he wondered, did the future hold in store for him?

His lip curled into a smile when they ushered him into a bare room on the first floor. Two police officers were placed outside the door, while two stood within.

Then, turning to the window, which looked out upon the bare trees of the Place below, he laughed aloud and made some humorous remark which caused the men to smile.

But, alas! he knew not the truth. Little did he dream of the amazing allegation that was to be made against him!—little did he dream how completely the enemies of his father-in-law, the general, had triumphed!