The young man made no reply; his eyes were now fixed on the table. He was evidently thinking hard. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “A French prison is very uncomfortable, but please yourself.” Pointer hoped the young man would take it sensibly. Carter—to give him the name under which his warrant had been issued—looked around the room. A flash came into his eyes as he caught sight of Mr. Beale bolting the door. “Pity I didn't kill _you_ when I had the chance!” he spat out between clenched teeth. Mr. Beale looked pointedly at the police-officer. “You had better take it quietly. Talk of that kind won't help your case,” that official warned, phlegmatically. Carter sat down. “May I smoke?” “A cigarette of mine, or here's my pouch if you'll let me have a look at your pipe first.” Pointer looked through the bowl and handed his briar back to Carter, who filled it, and then, hunching his shoulders, puffed away with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his eyes on his boots. The Chief Inspector looked at him keenly. The man really was engrossed in calculations of some kind. Concentration oozed from him. The police-officer was on the alert. He had seen something like this once before, when a man had been arrested on a capital charge, and the result had been a swift suicide. “It's a pretty average frowst in here; can the window be opened?” Pointer flung it open and stood squarely in the opening. Carter gave a harsh laugh, like a bark. “Suicide? Me? Not on your life!” The other did not move away. “Well?” he asked. “Do you want an extradition order?” “I'll come. Got to. Handcuffs, I suppose?” His voice was suddenly weary. Pointer did not reply. He never permitted himself to have any emotion towards a prisoner, but he felt sure that O'Connor would have been sorry for the chap in front of him. He cut the strings of the package on the table. Mr. Beale pressed forward. “Ah, ha! Electrical plant. Something new in the safe-breaking line, eh, Green?” Carter bared two rows of strong teeth. He did not look pleasant. The Englishman was conscious of an undertone as of a secret duel going on. Was it merely that the Editor had run the criminal to earth, who for so long had evaded justice, and evidently on some occasion tricked him? He looked as keenly at Mr. Beale as at Carter. The Editor's eyes were alight with triumph. Carter watched him dully, looking years older than the young man who had flung the door open. He strolled over to the window, and Pointer tensed himself, but Carter merely shot out a long, thin hand and pulled the curtain across the shut half. Mr. Beale, with a wonderfully agile spring—all things considered—switched it back. “No signalling to your accomplices, Green!” Carter swore at him, and swore strongly. “Come, come,” the Chief Inspector interposed sternly, “none of that! Mr. Beale, may I trouble you to call up my man who's down below; and where would you like me to meet you afterwards?”