ed the judge,
almost passionately.
"Ledantec's victim, not mine," replied Gascoigne, quietly. Then, as if
in apology to himself, he added, "I could not help speaking, but I
shall say nothing more."
"He is very strong, extraordinarily strong!" cried the judge, his rage
giving place to admiration at the obstinate fortitude of his
prisoner. "In all my experience"--this was to the police and the chief
custodian of the Morgue--"I have never come across a more
cold-blooded, cynical wretch; but he shall not beat me; he shall not
outrage and set the law at defiance; we will bend his spirit yet. Take
him back to the Mousetrap; he shall stay there until he chooses to
speak."
With this unfair threat, which was tantamount to a sentence of
unlimited imprisonment, the judge dismissed his prisoner.
Gascoigne was marched back to the cab; the police-agents ordered him
to re-enter it; one of them took his seat by his side as before, the
other remounted the box. Then the cab started on its journey back to
the Prefecture.
Gascoigne, silent, pre-occupied, and outwardly calm, was yet inwardly
consumed with a fierce though impotent rage. He was indignant at the
shameful treatment he had received. To be arraigned as a criminal
prematurely, his guilt taken for granted on the testimony of unseen
witnesses whose evidence he had no chance of rebutting--all this, so
intolerable to the spirit of British justice, revolted him and
outraged his sense of fair play.
Yet what could he do? He was without redress. They had denied him his
right of appeal to his ambassador; he was forbidden to communicate
with his friends. There seemed no hope for him, no chance of justice,
no loophole of escape.
Stay! Escape?
As the thought flashed quickly across his brain it lingered, taking
practical shape. Surely it was worth his while to make an effort, to
strike one bold blow for liberty now, before it was too late!
He quickly cast up the chances for and against. The cab was following
the line of quays as before, but along the northern bank of the
island, that bordering the main stream. It was going at little better
than a foot's pace; the door next which he sat was on the side of the
river. What if he knocked his guardian senseless, striking him a
couple of British blows--one, two, straight from the shoulder--then,
flinging open the door, spring out, and over the parapet into the
swift-flowing Seine? He was an excellent swimmer; once in the water,
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