From the scaffolding two more workmen had jumped down into M. Fuselier’s room. Before they had time to gather their wits together, the magistrate and Juve were seized by the fellows, bound, gagged, and thrown roughly to the ground. M. Fuselier all but lost consciousness; Juve ground his teeth, fighting desperately, dealing blows to right and left, a miracle of strength and courage. But what could he do against the odds? and he was quickly forced to submit. “Oh! damn the fellow!” one of the masons swore, “it’s a blessing we’ve got him tied! Now, sharp’s the word, my lads! The beak on a chair, and tight up! Hold on with the tec, eh?” By “the tec,” he meant Juve. Two men were kneeling on his chest, another was holding his head down on the floor, a fourth was cording his legs. Dazed and dumbfounded, Juve could make nothing of it all as he watched the bogus masons hurrying to obey the orders of the one who seemed to be in command. “The beak on the chair, I tell you!” repeated the chief. A handkerchief was twisted round M. Fuselier’s head, knotted ropes secured his legs, his hands were tied behind his back. Then two of the workmen took the unfortunate magistrate, one by the shoulders, the other by the legs, and carried him to an armchair. There he was seated and fixed firmly with ropes. Meantime his mates had finished tying up Juve. But suddenly the amazing crew who had invaded M. Fuselier’s sanctum stopped dead and stood motionless, afraid to stir. A knock had sounded at the door. “Curse it!” muttered the “Beadle”—the chief of the band was in fact, that redoubtable apache—“here’s something to queer our pitch!” Then, after motioning his accomplices to gather in a body at the door, he called out “Come in,” in a quiet voice. The door opened and the figure of a man appeared on the threshold; “M. Fuselier?...” he began: but the sentence was never finished. At a glance he had seen Juve’s body lying bound and inert on the floor, he had even caught sight of M. Fuselier, helpless in his chair. Instantly doubling his fists, a marvel of coolness and courage, he hurled himself into the room and rushed at the “Beadle” with a hoarse yell. But behind the door stood massed the apaches, waiting; he had not taken two steps when a human swarm was clinging round his shoulders, blows fell thick and fast, arms and legs were hauled and mauled, he was down, he was choking, he was helpless. Like Juve, like Fuselier, in half a minute he was tied and bound, unable to move a muscle. “Well, my fine fellow!” the “Beadle” now took up his parable, “here’s someone I never expected! why the devil must he come trespassing on our preserves? You know the chap, eh? _You_ know him, Paulet, don’t you?” The rest shrugged shoulders contemptuously. Paulet, with his crooked smile, swore: “By God! yes, there’s no mistaking the beggar, it’s Tom Bob, ain’t it—the chap that ran in poor ‘Beauty Boy’?” But the older apache had already resumed his gravity: