Enjolras has jerked his arm back too, and there's a rattle and a thud as he drops his book on the table and spins in his seat, towards the sharp tug on his arm And metal digging into his left wrist, through coat and shirtsleeve -- there's a handcuff there, a light and gleaming futuristic manacle, where there was nothing there a moment ago.

"I?"

No, that's genuine bewilderment and affront on the spy's face. And, as spies go, he's proved marvelously bad at deceit.

Besides, he didn't reach towards Enjolras's arm at all. Enjolras would have noticed that.

"I did nothing. What--?"

He scans the bar. There are a few others, crying out in annoyance or confusion, tugging at manacled wrists.