The occupant of No. 43 upon the first floor was pacing his room with
agitated steps--a young man with fair complexion and light curly hair;
but his blue eyes were clouded, and his fresh, youthful face was drawn
and haggard. His attire, too--English, like his aspect--was torn and
dishevelled, his voluminous neckcloth was disarranged, his waistcoat
had lost several buttons, and there were stains--dark purple
stains--upon sleeves and smallclothes.

"What has become of her?" he was saying as he strode up and down; "she
has not been here; she could not have come home when we parted at the
door of the Vaudeville--the bed has not been slept in. Can she have
gone? Is it possible that she has left me?"

He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"It was too horrible. To see him fall at my feet, struck down just
when I--Who is there?" he cried suddenly, in answer to a knock at
the door.

"Open, in the name of the law!"

"The police here already! What shall I do?"

"Open at once, or we shall force the door."

The young man slowly drew back the bolt and admitted the two
police-agents.

"M. Gascoigne? You will not answer to your name? That is equal--we
arrest you."