With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly on
the young man's shoulder. I looked in the fellow's face: there could
be no denying it; Cesarine's young man was Paul Finglemore, our
broker's brother.
"Paul Finglemore," Charles said severely, "otherwise Cuthbert Clay,
I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy!"
The young man glanced around him. He was surprised and perturbed;
but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted him.
"What, five to one?" he said, counting us over. "Has law and order
come down to this? Five respectable rascals to arrest one poor
beggar of a chevalier d'industrie! Why, it's worse than New York.
_There_, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten per Cent!"
"Hold his hands, Simpson!" Charles cried, trembling lest his enemy
should escape him.
Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders. "No,
not _you_, sir," he said to the man, haughtily. "Don't dare to lay
your hands upon me! Send for a constable if you wish, Sir Charles
Vandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!"
"Go for a policeman," Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standing
forward.
The prisoner eyed him up and down. "Oh, Dr. Beddersley!" he said,
relieved. It was evident he knew him.
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