He lay face downwards, a rug spread beneath him, his head resting on his hands. Dawn, with its white, pitiless light, showed his strong face, seamed and haggard. The white streaks in his trim beard were accentuated in the light of morning. He looked tired and disheartened, so unlike his usual self that Gonsalez, who crept up through the trap just before the sun rose, was as near alarmed as it was possible for that phlegmatic man to be. He touched him on the arm and Manfred started.
“What is the matter?” asked Leon softly.
Manfred’s smile and shake of head did not reassure the questioner.
“Is it Poiccart and the thief?”
“Yes,” nodded Manfred. Then speaking aloud, he asked: “Have you ever felt over any of our cases as you feel in this?”
They spoke in such low tones as almost to approach whispering. Gonsalez stared ahead thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he admitted, “once—the woman at Warsaw. You remember how easy it all seemed, and how circumstance after circumstance thwarted us … till I began to feel, as I feel now, that we should fail.”
“No, no, no!” said Manfred fiercely. “There must be no talk of failure, Leon, no thought of it.”
He crawled to the trap-door and lowered himself into the corridor, and Gonsalez followed.
“Thery?” he asked.
“Asleep.”
They were entering the studio, and Manfred had his hand on the door-handle when a footstep sounded on the bottom floor.
“Who’s there?” cried Manfred, and a soft whistle from below sent him flying downstairs.
“Poiccart!” he cried.
Poiccart it was, unshaven, dusty, weary.
“Well?” Manfred’s ejaculation was almost brutal in its bluntness.
“Let us go upstairs,” said Poiccart, shortly. The three men ascended the dusty stairway, not a word being spoken until they had reached the small living-room.
Then Poiccart spoke.
“The very stars in their courses are fighting against us,” he said, throwing himself into the only comfortable chair in the room, and flinging his hat into a corner. “The man who stole my pocketbook has been arrested by the police. He is a well-known criminal of a sneak-thief order, and unfortunately he had been under observation during the evening. The pocketbook was found in his possession, and all might have been well, but an unusually smart police officer associated the contents with us.
“After I had left you I went home and changed, then made my way to Downing Street. I was one of the curious crowd that stood watching the guarded entrance. I knew that Falmouth was there, and I knew, too, if there was any discovery made it would be communicated immediately to Downing Street. Somehow I felt sure the man was an ordinary thief, and that if we had anything to fear it was from a chance arrest. Whilst I was waiting a cab dashed up, and out an excited man jumped. He was obviously a policeman, and I had just time to engage a hansom when Falmouth and the new arrival came flying out. I followed them in the cab as fast as possible without exciting the suspicion of the driver. Of course, they outdistanced us, but their destination was evident. I dismissed the cab at the corner of the street in which the police station is situated, and walked down and found, as I had expected, the car drawn up at the door.
“I managed to get a fleeting glance at the charge room—I was afraid that any interrogation there might be would have been conducted in the cell, but by the greatest of good luck they had chosen the charge room. I saw Falmouth, and the policeman, and the prisoner. The latter, a mean-faced, long-jawed man with shifty eyes—no, no, Leon, don’t question me about the physiognomy of the man—my view was for photographic purposes—I wanted to remember him.
“In that second I could see the detective’s anger, the thief’s defiance, and I knew that the man was saying that he could not recognize us.”
“Ha!” It was Manfred’s sigh of relief that put a period to Poiccart’s speech.
“But I wanted to make sure,” resumed the latter. “I walked back the way I had come. Suddenly I heard the hum of the car behind me, and it passed me with another passenger. I guessed that they were taking the man back to Scotland Yard.
“I was content to walk back; I was curious to know what the police intended doing with their new recruit. Taking up a station that gave me a view of the entrance of the street, I waited. After a while the man came out alone. His step was light and buoyant. A glimpse I got of his face showed me a strange blending of bewilderment and gratification. He turned on to the Embankment, and I followed close behind.”
“There was a danger that he was being shadowed by the police too,” said Gonsalez warningly.
“Of that I was well satisfied,” Poiccart rejoined. “I took a very careful survey before I acted. Apparently the police were content to let him roam free. When he was abreast of the Temple steps he stopped and looked undecidedly left and right, as though he were not quite certain as to what he should do next. At that moment I came abreast of him, passed him, and then turned back, fumbling in my pockets.
“ ‘Can you oblige me with a match?’ I asked.
“He was most affable; produced a box of matches and invited me to help myself.
“I took a match, struck it, and lit my cigar, holding the match so that he could see my face.”
“That was wise,” said Manfred gravely.
“It showed his face, too, and out of the corner of my eye I watched him searching every feature. But there was no sign of recognition and I began a conversation. We lingered where we had met for a while and then by mutual consent we walked in the direction of Blackfriars, crossed the bridge, chatting
