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 empty, but there were footmarks beneath the window. The taciturn individual locked the door again and said that he would go and fetch his superior.

His superior, an active little man and a first-rate criminal expert, did not take long to grasp the situation. He spent a good two hours in trying to extract from Prokop an explanation of his relation to the two gentlemen. It appeared that he had a strong desire to arrest at least Prokop, who had become terribly embarrassed in his explanation of his dealings with the two foreigners. Then he questioned the doorkeeper and the waiters and instructed Prokop to report himself at the police-station at six o’clock that evening, intimating that he would do better not to leave the hotel meanwhile.

Prokop spent the rest of the day in wandering about the room and reflecting with horror that he would probably be imprisoned; for how could he furnish an adequate explanation when he was determined not to mention Krakatit at any cost? The devil only knew how long such a detention might last; and then, instead of looking for her, the unknown one with a veil Prokop’s eyes were full of tears; he felt so weak and soft that he grew positively ashamed. Finally he mustered all his determination and set out for the police-station.

They led him at once into an office which was furnished with a thick carpet, leather arm-chairs and a large box of cigars—that of the President. Near the writing-table Prokop was confronted with an enormous back like that of a boxer, inclined over some papers, a back which at the first glance inspired him with terror and submissiveness. “Sit down,