'There never yet was human power That could evade, if unforgiven, The potent search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.' CHAPTER XVI. IN THE RUE DES BEGUINES. 'Everyone has a romance in their life,' Dalton had said to Goring one day referring, no doubt, to the romance that formed a part of his own; 'to some it comes early, to others late.' Goring thought of that remark when he found that his abrupt visitor was an officer of gendarmes come to arrest and carry him before a magistrate. For what? Was this a bit of his romance, or a disgusting reality? We fear he found it the latter eventually. 'For what am I wanted?' he asked, haughtily. 'You will learn that soon enough, monsieur.' 'And to where must I accompany you?' 'To the police station--first.' 'First--and where afterwards?' 'That is as may be--but I have not come here to answer your questions--especially if asked in such a tone.' 'I am an officer in Her Britannic Majesty's service.' 'Officers in Her Britannic Majesty's service do not usually come to Belgium with such papers as have been found among your baggage.' 'The fellow is mad!' exclaimed Goring, on which the gendarme uttered a growl and struck the brass hilt of his sword significantly with his left hand. 'If monsieur is a British officer perhaps he has his cards about him?' he said, after a little pause. 'Of course I have,' replied Goring, and proceeded in haste to investigate, but in vain, the pockets of his coat. 'The case is gone; I have dropped it somehow,' he exclaimed, in perplexity and confusion. 'Bah!' exclaimed the gendarme; 'I thought so--come along; we are but wasting time.' A voiture was summoned. A gendarme mounted on the box beside the driver, other two stepped inside with Goring, who, thus escorted, was driven in silence through several streets, just as the lamps were being lighted, to a police station in a narrow alley, near the Rempart Saint Catharine, where he was conducted into a species of office, over the mantelpiece of which were the ancient arms of the city of Antwerp, like those of Edinburgh, a castle triple-towered with three banners, each bearing a human hand, and there he found himself before a Juge de Paix or Préfet he knew not which; but a portly individual armed with considerable authority, and determined apparently to use it. 'For what purpose or reason am I brought here, monsieur?' asked Goring, haughtily and angrily. The man in authority--the Préfet, we shall call him--drew from his pocket a bronze medal attached to a ribbon, and shook it in his face, saying brusquely, 'I will teach you to know the Belgian colours when you see them. Gardez-vous!' he added. Goring was too much of a soldier and gentleman to insult or resist any constituted authority, and, believing the whole affair to be, if not a joke, some explainable mistake, waited the next move with patience.