Part 44 (1/2)

Lanyard measured the two speculatively: the spokesman seemed a bit old and fat, ripe for his pension, little apt to prove seriously effective in a rough-and-tumble; but the other was young, st.u.r.dy, and broad-chested, with the poise of an athlete, and carried in addition to his sword a pistol naked in his hand, while his clear blue eyes, meeting the adventurer's, lighted up with a glint of invitation.

For the present, however, Lanyard wasn't taking any. He met that challenge with a look of utter stupidity, folded his arms, lounged against the desk, and watched Madame Omber acknowledge, none too cordially, the other sergent's query.

”I am Madame Omber--yes. What can I do for you?”

The sergent gaped. ”Pardon!” he stammered, then laughed as one who tardily appreciates a joke. ”It is well we are arrived in time, madame,” he added--”though it would seem you have not had great trouble with this miscreant. Where is the woman?”

He moved a pace toward Lanyard: hand-cuffs jingled in his grasp.

”But a moment!” madame interposed. ”Woman? What woman?”

Pausing, the older sergent explained in a tone of surprise:

”But his accomplice, naturally! Such were our instructions--to proceed at once to madame's hotel, come in quietly by the servants'

entrance--which would be open--and arrest a burglar with his female accomplice.”

Again the stout sergent moved toward Lanyard; again Madame Omber stopped him.

”But one moment more, if you please!”

Her eyes, dense with suspicion, questioned Lanyard; who, with a significant nod toward the jewel-case still in her hands, gave her a glance of dumb entreaty.

After brief hesitation, ”It is a mistake,” madame declared; ”there is no woman in this house, to my certain knowledge, who has no right to be here... But you say you received a message? I sent none!”

The fat sergent shrugged. ”That is not for me to dispute, madame. I have only my orders to go by.”

He glared sullenly at Lanyard; who returned a placid smile that (despite such hope as he might derive from madame's irresolute manner) masked a vast amount of trepidation. He felt tolerably sure Madame Omber had not sent for police on prior knowledge of his presence in the library. All this, then, would seem to indicate a new form of attack on the part of the Pack. He had probably been followed and seen to enter; or else the girl had been caught attempting to steal away and the information wrung from her by _force majeure_.... Moreover, he could hear two more pair of feet tramping through the salons.

Pending the arrival of these last, Madame Omber said nothing more.

And, unceremoniously enough, the newcomers shouldered into the library--one pompous uniformed body, of otherwise undistinguished appearance, promptly identified by the sergents de ville as monsieur le commissaire of that quarter; the other, a puffy mediocrity, known to Lanyard at least (if apparently to no one else) as Popinot.

At this confirmation of his darkest fears, the adventurer abandoned hope of aid from Madame Omber and began quietly to reckon his chances of escape through his own efforts.

But he was quite unarmed, and the odds were heavy: four against one, all four no doubt under arms, and two at least--the sergents--men of sound military training.

”Madame Omber?” enquired the commissaire, saluting that lady with immense dignity. ”One trusts that this intrusion may be pardoned, the circ.u.mstances remembered. In an affair of this nature, involving this repository of so historic treasures--”

”That is quite well understood, monsieur le commissaire,” madame replied distantly. ”And this monsieur is, no doubt, your aide?”

”Pardon!” the official hastened to identify his companion: ”Monsieur Popinot, agent de la Surete, who lays these informations!”

With a profound obeisance to Madame Omber, Popinot strode dramatically over to confront Lanyard and explore his features with his small, keen, s.h.i.+fty eyes of a pig; a scrutiny which the adventurer suffered with superficial calm.

”It is he!” Popinot announced with a gesture. ”Messieurs, I call upon you to arrest this man, Michael Lanyard, alias 'The Lone Wolf.'”

He stepped back a pace, expanding his chest in vain effort to eclipse his abdomen, and glanced triumphantly at his respectful audience.

”Accused,” he added with intense relish, ”of the murder of Inspector Roddy of Scotland Yard at Troyon's, as well as of setting fire to that establishment--”