“Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?” He tried to put indifference into his voice. “Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey.” Bobby walked out of the hotel. “Oh, damn him, damn him, damn him!” he muttered as he threw himself into a cab. “Go to Down Street.” Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and, flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered, but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey’s triumph. There must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened, something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a hundred times, Bobby returned on the past and tried to piece together consecutively all the incidents since his first meeting with Madame de Corantin. Gradually an impression formed itself in his mind that what at first had seemed an attractive mystery was something deeper than he had imagined. Gradually there spread over him a vague sensation of discomfort, of apprehension even. Still, when he thought about her it seemed impossible to connect anything sinister with a personality so charming, with a disposition so amiable. No, it was beyond him; it was useless his attempting to puzzle out the problem. Only time could explain it. As they had met at the Savoy, so sooner or later they would meet again. He knew it was useless to try and forget her; that was impossible, but, in the meantime, what? Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. Some one was ringing the bell at the entrance. Bobby went to the door. Two men were standing outside--strangers to him. “Are you Mr. Froelich?” one of them asked. “Yes,” answered Bobby. “Why? What do you want?” “I should like to speak to you a moment.” “What about?” Bobby eyed them suspiciously. “I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Froelich. We’d better go inside to talk.” Bobby, quite bewildered, led them into his sitting-room, and shut the door. “My name is Inspector Groombridge,” said the spokesman of the two. “I have been instructed to place you under arrest.” “Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some mistake.” Bobby was horrified. “Those are my instructions, Mr. Froelich, and I am afraid I must ask you to come with me. My colleague, Sub-inspector Dane, is to remain here in possession, and I am afraid I must ask you to hand him your keys.”