Unconsciously he must have given some premonition of this desperate scheme, for the two policemen tightened their grasp, forced his hands higher up his back, and bent his head forward until he was in danger of having either his neck or his shoulder dislocated. "Will you keep quiet?" murmured the chief detective. "You cannot escape, and you are only making the affair more disastrous to yourself." Then Brett realized that further resistance was hopeless. He managed to gurgle out that if they would allow him to assume a more comfortable attitude he would not trouble them any further. Gingerly and cautiously the two men somewhat relaxed the strain, and he was able to breathe freely once more. Then he laughed, almost hysterically, but he could not help saying in English-- "The shadow of Scotland Yard falls on me even here. Poor old Winter, how I will roast him over this adventure!" "What are you talking about?" demanded one of the men. "I was only thinking aloud," replied Brett. "And what were your thoughts?" "Simply this, that the sooner I meet your remarkably astute commissary the better I shall be pleased." CHAPTER XI A DISCONCERTED COMMISSARY The journey across Paris proceeded without further incident, until they reached the prefecture. The two detectives hurried their prisoner into a large general office, where he was surveyed with some curiosity by the subordinates lounging near a huge fire, whilst one of their number reported his arrival. After a brief interval he was taken into an inner office. Behind a green baize-covered table was seated a sharp-looking man, whose face was chiefly composed of eyebrows, pince-nez, a hooked nose, and a furious imperiale. This individual turned the shade of the lamp so that the light fell in its full radiance on the face and figure of the prisoner. He produced a huge volume, and thumbed over its leaves until he reached the first vacant place, ruled and numbered for the description of all persons brought before him. "Your name?" he said sharply. "Reginald Brett," was the reply. The Frenchman required this to be spelt for him. "Age?" "Thirty-seven." "Nationality?" "English." "Profession?" "Barrister-at-law." The official consulted a type-written document, which he selected from a mass of papers fastened by an indiarubber band. Then he looked curiously at the prisoner. "Are you sure this is the man?" he said to the senior detective. "Quite positive, monsieur." "Then take off his wig and get a towel, so that he may remove some of his make-up. The rascal should be an actor. I never saw a better disguise in my life." Brett knew it was hopeless to attempt explanations at this stage. He readily fell in with their directions, and in a few seconds he stood revealed in something akin to his ordinary appearance.