the elevator in the lobby at the Ambassador tonight and right over by the door that runs into a little alcove, I saw a man sitting, and I knew who it was. It was the same one who looked in the compartment at us on the train; I’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles. Well, I knew what to do, and I didn’t waste any time. I got my porter, and he got a policeman. The porter speaks English, and I told ’em what to do. You never can tell what they’ll do against Americans in these foreign cities; if we jumped on the man, he might start a rumpus, and maybe we’d get a knife in us, the way they do in these foreign cities. So I just had the porter call him in the corridor that runs out to the street right by the hotel. They jumped on him, and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth so he couldn’t yell for his friends and maybe get me killed; and I told the policeman I’d be responsible—to bring him right around here with us, and I’d present you with the murderer.” Triumphant and breathless, she pointed toward the door. “They’ve got him right out there now, and your flunkies all round here are trying to keep him quiet.”
Villon rose heavily, as though lifted by a sort of slow explosion. His mouth was partly open, and he merely stared. Depping was fumbling to adjust his monocle.
“Bring him in!” shrilled Miss Mertz.
Everybody in the room scrambled up, turning a hodge-podge of astonished faces. An apologetic agent de police escorted through the door a very quiet little figure, who was spitting out a handkerchief with gurgles of disgust.
Villon bawled, “Lights! Turn them on over by the door!” When the lights came on, Villon’s mouth opened still further. The prisoner gently ⟨disengaged⟩ his arms from the grasp of the policemen. He stood looking over the group slowly and sardonically—a small man, whose lips were pursed mockingly under
