However little of human nature an Englishman may possess, he is rarely unmoved by this kind of treatment. Maitland took the man by the collar, _sans phrase_, and spun him round, amid the horrified clamor of the porter. But the man, without any passion, merely produced and displayed a card, containing a voucher that he belonged to the Secret Police, and calmly asked Maitland for “his papers.” Maitland had no papers. He had understood that passports were no longer required. The detective assured him that passports “spoil nothing.” Had monsieur nothing stating his identity? Maitland, entirely forgetting that he had artfully entered his name as “Buchanan” on the hotel book, produced his card, on the lower corner of which was printed, _St. Gatien’s College._ This address puzzled the detective a good deal, while the change of name did not allay his suspicions, and he ended by requesting Maitland to accompany him into the presence of Justice. As there was no choice, Maitland obtained leave to put some linen in his travelling-bag, and was carried off to what we should call the nearest police-station. Here he was received in a chill bleak room by a formal man, wearing a decoration, who (after some private talk with the detective) asked Maitland to explain his whole conduct in the matter of the coat. In the first place, the detective’s notes on their conversation were read aloud, and it was shown that Maitland had given a false name; had originally spoken of the object of his quest as “the coat of a friend;” then as “the coat of a man whom he knew something about;” then as “the coat of a man whose name he did not know;” and that, finally, he had attempted to go away without offering any satisfactory account of himself.