The Board of Inquiry began its sessions that afternoon, at the Prefecture of Marine. It was composed of the most distinguished officers of France, who had donned for the occasion their most brilliant uniforms. There was much paraphernalia—secretaries, portfolios, red-taped papers, reports—all that display so dear to the French temperament; and every one wore an air of importance and solemnity befitting time and place.
M. Delcassé opened the session with a ringing speech, forming a notable contrast to the platitudes uttered by the President in the morning. In fact, it was so bold in its allusions to an approaching struggle with "the implacable enemy of the Republic," that the members of the Board glanced covertly at each other in astonishment. Their astonishment was the greater because, as they well knew, M. Delcassé was not given to indiscretions. At least, his indiscretions were always nicely-calculated ones. He knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue—none better; and the fact that he thought it necessary to speak now proved that theaffair was serious indeed. At the end of the speech, the Board proceeded in a body to an inspection of the wreck.
Lépine, meanwhile, armed with the description Crochard had given him, set his men to work to discover the dwelling-place of the white-haired stranger who had been seen passing back and forth along the road outside the city gate. But, to his chagrin, evening came and his men had discovered nothing. It is true that the investigation was rendered more than usually difficult by the fact that the town was still in an uproar, and no one wished to speak of anything but the disaster. For the moment, the memories of the people went no farther back than dawn of the previous day. In a day or two, when the first excitement had passed, there would be a much better chance of success.
So, at least, reasoned Inspector Pigot, whose watchword was always Patience! But the reasoning did not satisfy Lépine. Patience was not always a virtue. In this affair, it was impossible to wait a day or two. With every hour, no doubt, the man they sought was putting fresh leagues between himself and his pursuers. Crochard, so Lépine told himself miserably, Crochard would not wait a day or two. Perhaps, already....
He put on his hat and sought the Café des Voyageurs. Choosing the seat which he had occupiedthat morning, he ordered a liqueur and sat for an hour contemplating the crowd. Again he perceived that the proprietor was absent; but this time the head-waiter did not approach, or even meet his glance. He thought, for a moment, of calling him and asking for Crochard; but he finally decided that that would be too great an indiscretion. Besides, as Crochard had pointed out, in this affair it was Lépine who followed. It was for him to receive instructions, not to give them. At last, with a feeling of depression and dependency quite new to him, the great detective left the café, returned to his hotel and went to bed.
But early next morning, things began to move again. He had scarcely finished his breakfast, when a summons came from M. Delcassé to attend him at once, and when Lépine entered his office, he saw that something of importance had occurred. Delcassé already had a visitor—a tall, thin man, dressed severely in black, with the word "banker" written all over him. Lépine was therefore not surprised when the visitor was introduced to him as the manager of the Toulon branch of the Bank of France.
"We have something of interest here," said Delcassé, and tossed over to Lépine two notes for a hundred francs each.
The latter's eyes were shining as he picked themup, glanced at their numbers, and then compared them with a third note which he took from his pocket-book.
"They are of the same series," he said. "Where did you get them, sir?" and he turned to the bank manager.
"They were deposited with us by the cashier of the central railway station."
"When?"
"On the afternoon of Monday, the twenty-fifth."
"How did you discover them?"
"We received instructions yesterday from Paris to report immediately the receipt of any notes of this series. Our cashier, while checking up our deposits yesterday evening, happened upon these notes, and identified them as a part of the railway deposit of the day before. The matter was reported to me, and I at once forwarded the report to Paris. This morning I received a telegram instructing me to report in person to M. Delcassé, and I hastened to do so."
"You have done well, sir," said the Minister, "and I thank you. We will ask you to exchange these notes for two others, and furthermore to say nothing to any one of this discovery or of having seen me."
The exchange was made, the banker departed,and Lépine, with the notes in his pocket-book, hastened away to the Gare Centrale. Arrived there, he asked for the chief, introduced himself, and stated his business.
"I have here two notes," he said, "which were deposited by your cashier last Monday afternoon. It is most important that I find out from whom this money was received, and to what point tickets were purchased. The purchase was made, no doubt, some time during Monday."
"The money might have been received Sunday," the chef-du-gare pointed out. "Since the bank is closed Sunday, we can make no deposit on that day."
"I have reason to believe it was not received until Monday," said Lépine. "May I interrogate the cashiers, beginning with the one who was on duty at daybreak Monday?"
"There are two men on duty at all hours," explained the chief; "and each trick is eight hours in length. The first begins at six o'clock in the morning. At what hour was daybreak on Monday?"
"At five o'clock and forty-nine minutes."
"The clerks who were in the bureau at that hour are not here now, but I can have them called."
"Let us interrogate the ones who are here," suggested Lépine. "Perhaps it will not be necessary to disturb the others."
The chief pressed a button and summoned theticket-sellers, one after the other. The first had no recollection of having received the notes, but with his companion Lépine was more successful.
"Yes, yes, I remember them perfectly," he said, when they were shown to him. "My attention was called to them because they were both quite new. I looked at them closely to make certain that they were genuine, and noticed that they were numbered consecutively. Another detail which caused them to remain in my memory was the striking appearance of the person who gave them to me."
Lépine's heart was throbbing with triumph.
"Describe this man," he said.
"Ah, sir," said the clerk, "that is just it. It was not a man, but a girl—a girl of eighteen or twenty. That is what drew my attention. It is not usual to have a girl like that ask for two tickets, second-class, to Paris."
"A girl!" stammered Lépine. "You are sure?"
"Perfectly sure, sir."
"Well, describe her, then."
The clerk half-closed his eyes in order the better to visualize his memory.
"She was, as I have said, of about nineteen, and she was not a Frenchwoman."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, in the first place, she spoke French not very well; and, in the second place, there was in hermanner an assurance, a freedom from embarrassment, which a French girl of her station would not possess."
"Was she light or dark?"
"She was dark, sir, with bright black eyes, with which she looked at one very steadily. She was slightly built, of medium height, simply dressed, so far as I could see through the little window, not fashionably, but with good effect. However, what impressed me most was her calm assurance—almost American; but she was too dark to be of America."
Reading between the lines, Lépine suspected that the clerk had attempted to start a flirtation with the self-possessed unknown, and had been rebuffed. And yet, what he said was true—young girls in France were not, ordinarily, entrusted with the buying of railway tickets, especially for so considerable a journey.
"You are sure the tickets were to Paris?"
"Yes, sir; second-class. I remember distinctly giving her sixty-four francs in change."
"At what hour was this?"
"About eight o'clock, sir."
"Of Monday morning?"
"Yes, sir; of Monday morning."
"At what hour was the next train for Paris?"
"At eight-fifteen, sir, the express departs."
"The girl had no companion?"
"I saw none, sir."
"She certainly had a companion, or she would not have bought two tickets."
"Perhaps the inspector at the gate can tell us something," the chief suggested, and the clerk was dismissed and the inspector summoned. But he could give them no information. There had been many passengers for the express, and, besides, every one, himself included, was so distressed and overwrought by the catastrophe of the morning that there had not been the usual attention to detail. The inquiry was extended to the baggage-porters, but with no better success. They, too, had been upset by the disaster and had thought of nothing else. Some of them had frankly deserted their posts in order to hasten to the harbour-front. None of those who remained had noticed a white-haired man and a dark-haired girl.
"Come!" said Lépine savagely to himself, as he left the station. "This is not getting ahead—we must try the cabs. But first...."
He turned toward the Prefecture and quickened his step, for suddenly he scented a new danger. This white-haired man, then, was in the pay of Germany. He had destroyedLa Libertéfor a price—an immense price, no doubt! And now he had gone to Paris. From there, where would he go? To Brest, perhaps, to work similar mischief there.Lépine shivered a little. The best men he had left at Paris must be sent to Brest with instructions to arrest the fugitives at sight. Two people, so unusual in appearance, would find it difficult to avoid the police in so small a town. But in Paris—that was different. Yet even there something might be done. And then there was always chance, divine chance, which might, at any moment, deliver them into his hands. Ah, if only he were strolling along the Boulevards, looking into this face and that!
"Decidedly, I must be getting back!" Lépine murmured; and, having arrived at the Prefecture, he sent a long telegram to his assistant at Paris and another to the Prefect at Brest. Then he summoned Pigot. "You will interrogate the cabmen at the Gare Centrale," he said, "as to which of them drove a white-haired man and a dark-haired girl to the station for the Paris express, Monday morning. And, understand well, Pigot, there must be no failure this time!" Then, as the door closed behind Pigot's retiring figure, he slapped himself smartly on the forehead. "I am a fool!" he cried, and hurried from the building and called a cab.
There are many dealers in electrical supplies at Toulon, and it was not until he reached the fourth one that Lépine found a ray of light. No; its proprietor had no recollection of any sales to strangers. A little white-haired man? No. But stay—therehadbeen a white-haired man! No, he had bought nothing. He had had a battery recharged—a heavy battery of an unusual type. Yes, it had been delivered. One moment, and the man slowly turned the pages of his ledger, while Lépine bit his lips with impatience. Here it was—the address—80 Rue du Plasson, fourth floor.
In another moment, Lépine's cab was rattling over the cobbles in the direction of the quays.
"Faster! Faster!" he urged.
And then they were in the Rue du Plasson.
"Behold Number Eighty, sir," said the cabman, and pulled up sharply.
There was already a cab at the curb, and as Lépine jumped out, the door of the house opened and Pigot appeared on the threshold. He stared at his chief in astonishment.
"I was just coming to report to you, sir," he said. "The birds have flown."
"Indeed!" sneered Lépine. "So you have discovered that, have you? But the installation is here, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," answered Pigot, very red. "On the fourth floor."
Lépine bounded up the stairs, and Pigot followed in silence. He felt that he had been used unjustly; after all, he was not a wizard—what did the Chief expect!
At the top of the house, Lépine glanced first into the narrow room which we have already seen; then he returned to the landing and opened the other door. It led into a still narrower room, also extending to the front of the house, and lighted by a single window. Lépine went to the window and looked out. Over the roof of the low market across the way, he could see the harbour, the warships, and the wreck ofLa Liberté. Then he turned to an examination of the room.
A heavy box stood before the window, and on the floor beside it were three large batteries. Some pieces of copper wire were lying about, but there was nothing else. In the top of the box, however, four holes had been bored, as though for the reception of bolts, and one side of the box was badly burned. The sill of the window was also scorched and blistered.
"You have the proprietor of this house?" Lépine inquired.
"He is below," Pigot announced, and went to fetch him.
But from the proprietor, a nervous little man with a dirty beard, Lépine learned little. He lived at the rear of the ground floor, and ten days or perhaps two weeks before, a man had knocked at the door and asked if the upper floor was to rent.
"What sort of man?" Lépine inquired.
"A dark man, with white hair, sir; not a bad-looking man, but not a Frenchman."
"A German, perhaps."
"No, most certainly not a German; an Italian or a Spaniard."
"What was his business?"
"He said he was an inventor and desired the top floor for his experiments. I told him that in that case I should have to charge extra, as experiments were always dangerous. He did not object, and paid a month in advance. He seemed a very harmless person."
"Was he alone?"
"At that time, yes, sir. But when he returned with his baggage, his daughter accompanied him."
"How do you know it was his daughter?"
"He told me so, sir. The resemblance was very evident. Besides, he insisted that I supply material to curtain off a portion of the room for her bed."
Lépine recognised the cogency of this reasoning and nodded.
"Continue," he said.
"She was a dark, slim girl, of about twenty. They gave me no trouble. She scarcely left the house except for the marketing. But her father was away a great deal."
"Did he bring much baggage?"
"Two pieces of hand-baggage, sir, and that box yonder by the window. The box was very heavy—almost as if filled with iron—and we had great difficulty in getting it up the stairs, even with the assistance of the truck-man."
"Did you enter this room while he was here?"
"No, sir; I entered neither of the rooms. My rule is never to interfere in the affairs of my tenants—they do not like it. But on one occasion, as I passed the door, I heard him at work on his invention."
"Heard him, you say?"
"Yes, sir; there was a deep humming noise as of a huge top, or perhaps of a motor. It occurred to me that it was a flying-machine which he was inventing. Then, on Sunday, came a telegram."
"A telegram?"
"Yes, sir; I brought it up myself. He read it and his face grew very grave. He informed me that he would be compelled to depart next day—that his sister was dying. But he assured me that he would return as soon as possible to continue his experiments, and that I was to hold the apartment for him—at least until the month for which he had paid had expired."
"And he did depart?"
"Yes, sir; quite early in the morning. I called acab and assisted to carry down his baggage. The box, as you see, remains against his return, also his apparatus," and he indicated the batteries.
"Oh, certainly," agreed Lépine, with irony, "there can be no doubt of his intention to return." And then his face grew dark and his eyes flashed. "How does it happen," he demanded sternly, "that you did not cause him to fill out a registration blank for the police?"
The little man twisted his hands nervously.
"In that I admit I was most culpable, sir," he said. "But when I looked in my desk for a blank, I found that I had none. Every day I intended going to the Prefecture to get a new supply, but every day something occurred to prevent me. And then came the day of his departure."
Lépine's face was very stern.
"You have, indeed, been culpable," he said, "and I shall see that you are punished. You have broken one of the laws of your country. You have aided a malefactor!"
The little man's face was livid.
"Oh, do not say so, sir!" he protested. "There must be some mistake! That kind gentleman, absorbed only in his invention—"
"Idosay so," broke in Lépine, savagely. "Did he receive any letters?"
"One, sir, on the Saturday before the arrival ofthe telegram. No doubt it, too, spoke of the illness of his sister."
Lépine put his hand wearily to his head.
"At least you noticed the address on the letter?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, sir. It was 'Monsieur B. Séguin, 80 Rue du Plasson, Toulon.' Séguin, that was the name of my lodger."
"But you said he was not a Frenchman!"
"Perhaps he was a Belgian, sir. I have heard that they are sometimes dark."
Lépine threw up his hands.
"Head of a pig!" he cried, and then controlled himself. "M. Pigot," he said, "you will take this idiot to his rooms and remain in charge of him until you hear from me."
And then, as Pigot and his prisoner started down the stairs, Lépine turned to an investigation of the two rooms. Every nook, every crevice, every inch of the floor, every drawer—all these he examined with a minuteness of which only the French police are capable, but his search disclosed nothing which shed any new light on the mystery. At last, he descended the stairs and left the house.
There was still one hope, the telegram. He hastened to the post-office, inquired for the clerk of telegraphs, apologised for again disturbing him, and asked to see the telegram received for B. Séguin, 80Rue du Plasson, the Sunday before. At the end of five minutes it was in his hands, and he read it with dismay. It had been sent from Brussels, and this is the English of its contents:
"Our sister is very ill and asks for you. Come if you would see her alive."Charles Séguin."
"Our sister is very ill and asks for you. Come if you would see her alive.
"Charles Séguin."
"It is evident that this affair was not lightly arranged," said M. Delcassé, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
Lépine nodded gloomily.
"You may well say so!" he agreed.
The two sat together in Delcassé's room, and Lépine had just finished his report. Evening was falling, and the room was growing dark, but neither desired a light.
"Everything has been thought of and provided for," said the Prefect, at last, "even to the telegram which gave an excuse for this man's abrupt departure. Perhaps the other telegrams were also intended to mislead us—just as they did mislead me—to convince us that those other men were only ordinary travellers. They must have foreseen that the police would investigate the presence of every stranger in Toulon. It was careless to send both telegrams from Brussels, but a coincidence so small might easily be overlooked. On one point only was there an oversight—they did not foresee that we might trace them by means of the money. There is our hope.Sooner or later, the man with the white hair will spend another of his hundred-franc notes. There is a certain justice in it," he added, "that he should be betrayed by his blood-money."
"Yes, blood-money!" cried Delcassé. "That is the word for it! Oh, that I had my hands on the monster—for heisa monster, Lépine; he must be a monster! There he sat, in cold blood, and loosed the power that killed three hundred men! Have you considered, Lépine, that the finding of this second installation furnishes, as Crochard foresaw, proof of his theory?"
"Yes," said Lépine, in a low voice; "this is the proof."
Delcassé was on his feet, striding savagely up and down the room.
"But it is absurd," he cried, "it is incredible that here, under our very noses, such things should take place! What are our police for, Lépine—our secret service?"
"It is the fault of that miserable landlord," Lépine pointed out.
"Of him an example shall be made. But that does not help us. This man must not escape! Think what it may mean for France if he escapes!"
"I have thought, sir!" and Lépine's voice was trembling.
Delcassé turned on him fiercely.
"Where is Crochard?" he demanded. "What is he doing all this time?"
"I do not know, sir. I have not seen him since yesterday."
"Rest assured that he has not been idle. Do you know where to find him?"
"I have his address."
"Go to him, then, and say I wish to see him. We must lay these discoveries before him—though no doubt he has already made them for himself. Tell him he must not desert us—that without him, we are lost!"
Lépine was grateful for the darkness, for his cheeks were red with humiliation. But, after all, M. Delcassé was right. He rose with a sigh.
"I will seek him at once, sir," he said.
"Understand well, Lépine," said the Minister, more gently, "it is not you I blame. You have done all that is possible with the means at your command. But we cannot afford to fail. In an affair of this kind, the public is not reasonable. Should we fail, and should our failure become known, as it almost surely would, the ministry might find itself swept away before the storm. So we must find Crochard."
"I agree with you, sir," said Lépine, and took his leave.
The Café des Voyageurs was crowded when hereached it, and he had some difficulty in finding a seat. The marines who had been searching the wreck had, at last, been released from duty, and had, with one accord, hastened ashore to refresh themselves at the expense of a populace eager to listen to every detail. The café hummed with talk; weird and revolting stories of the search were told with gusto; the completeness of the destruction was described; the survivors dwelt upon their sensations at the moment of the explosion; the heroism of the rescuers was not forgotten; but, and Lépine noted this with a little sigh of relief, nowhere was there an intimation that the disaster was other than an accident.
He sat there for half an hour, listening to all this, and then, as Crochard made no sign, he summoned the head-waiter and requested a word with the proprietor. With a nod, as of one who expected the request, the man turned and again led the way to the door at the rear of the room.
"In there, sir," he said, and closed it when Lépine had entered.
A single candle burned on the table in the centre of the little room, and beyond it sat a man. At the first glance, in the semi-darkness, Lépine fancied it was Crochard; then he saw that this man was slighter, that his face was bloodless, and that he was staring with hunted eyes.
With a little start of surprise, he looked again; then he sat down.
"So, Samson, it is you!" said Lépine, quietly.
"Yes, sir," answered Samson. "I was expecting you. But I did not think you would recognise me so readily."
Lépine laughed shortly.
"I have a good memory," he said. "Crochard told you, perhaps, that I might come?"
"Yes, sir; and he directed that I give you this."
He handed Lépine a note. The latter broke the seal, held it to the light and read it carefully:
"My dear M. Lépine:"I have found it necessary to leave Toulon, in the pursuit of a certain business, whose nature you can guess. I hope soon to have good news for M. Delcassé and yourself. Meanwhile, I would remind you of our agreement as to my friends. Samson is one of them. He has already been of some service in this affair, and may be of more. We can discuss his future upon my return. I will answer for him."Crochard, L'Invincible!"
"My dear M. Lépine:
"I have found it necessary to leave Toulon, in the pursuit of a certain business, whose nature you can guess. I hope soon to have good news for M. Delcassé and yourself. Meanwhile, I would remind you of our agreement as to my friends. Samson is one of them. He has already been of some service in this affair, and may be of more. We can discuss his future upon my return. I will answer for him.
"Crochard, L'Invincible!"
Lépine refolded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
"When did Crochard leave?" he asked.
"He gave me the note at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, sir, and stated that he was about to depart. I have not seen him since."
"Did he mention his destination?"
"No, sir."
Lépine regarded his companion thoughtfully.
"There is one thing that perhaps youcantell me, Samson," he said. "Previous to his departure, did he visit the house at 80 Rue du Plasson?"
"I think it very probable," answered Samson, after a moment's hesitation. "I myself furnished M. Crochard with that address, when he returned to the café yesterday for his lunch."
"Ah!" said Lépine. "So it was you discovered it!"
He fell a moment silent, studying the other's countenance.
"You have indeed changed, Samson," he said, at last. "I suppose it was Crochard who arranged your escape?"
Samson made no reply.
"You have a good business here?"
"Very good, sir."
"You know, of course, that it is my duty to denounce you as an escaped criminal?"
"Yes, I know that, sir."
"Crochard tells me that he will answer for you—in other words, he guarantees that you will not run away. Do you understand that?"
"Do not fear," said Samson, huskily."Monsieur will always find me here when he requires me."
Lépine looked at him for a moment, then got abruptly to his feet.
"Very well," he said; "I shall do nothing for the present," and he left the café.
It was nearly eight o'clock, and, feeling the need of dinner, Lépine made his way back to his hotel; but his hunger was destined to go unsatisfied, for, as he stepped through the door, Pigot touched him on the arm.
"M. Delcassé wishes to see you at once," he said, and Lépine, with one regretful glance in the direction of the dining-room, hurried up the stairs to the Minister's apartment. He found him dictating to his secretary, a great pile of letters before him.
Without pausing in his dictation, Delcassé picked up a telegram which lay at his elbow, and handed it to Lépine. It was dated from Paris, and had been filed but an hour before. It read:
"Seven notes one hundred francs B162810R to B162816R deposited to-day by Thomas Cook & Son.Linné, Governor Bank of France."
"Seven notes one hundred francs B162810R to B162816R deposited to-day by Thomas Cook & Son.
Linné, Governor Bank of France."
Lépine laid the telegram on his desk and glanced at his watch.
"I must be in Paris in the morning," he said.
Delcassé nodded.
"Yes," he agreed. "And Crochard?"
"Is no doubt already there," and he handed Delcassé the note which Samson had given him.
Delcassé read it, and looked up with an amused smile, in which there lurked a trace of malice.
"What a man!" he said. "Nevertheless, Lépine, I think you would better go. You may be able to assist him! Give him my compliments, and keep me informed," and he turned back to his secretary.
The Paris office of the Messrs. Cook is at the corner opposite the Opera House, and here, about ten o'clock on the morning of Thursday, September 28, a little grey-bearded man descended from a fiacre, entered, and, after a short delay, was admitted to the presence of the manager, who made it clear at once that he was entirely at the service of his distinguished visitor.
Lépine sat down and produced from his pocket seven notes of the Bank of France, for one hundred francs each. They were quite new and had not even been folded.
"These notes were deposited by you yesterday afternoon," he said. "I should like to know from whom they were received."
The manager took the notes and glanced at them.
"That will not be difficult, sir," he said. "Our cashier can no doubt tell us from which of ourclerks he received them. Excuse me a moment."
He hurried from the room with the notes in his hand, and Lépine, strolling to the window, relapsed into his favourite amusement. At no other corner in the city could it be practised so profitably, for here, at the meeting of the Boulevards, all Paris, sooner or later, passed; and not Paris only, but vagrants from every nation. So Lépine watched the crowd intently, his bright eyes skipping from face to face—a mere glance at one, a longer glance at another, a close stare at a third. Perhaps, at the back of his mind, there was the hope that some incredible good-fortune might send past this corner a shrunken, white-haired man, leaning on the arm of his dark-haired daughter....
The opening of the door behind him broke into his thoughts, and he turned to find that the manager had brought another man back with him.
"This is the clerk who received the money," said the manager, and returned the seven notes to the detective.
Lépine motioned the clerk to be seated, and himself sat down facing him.
"Tell me all that you remember of the transaction," he said.
"It was Tuesday afternoon, sir," the clerk began, "about four o'clock, I should say, that a man came to the counter and stated that he desired a stateroom,with two berths, second-class, for thePrinzsessin Ottilie, the sailing of yesterday."
"What sort of a man?" asked Lépine.
"A thin man, past middle-age. His hair was quite grey and he was of a dark complexion, with very bright eyes."
"What language did he use?"
"He spoke in English, sir."
"Fluently?"
"Quite fluently, sir."
"Very well; proceed."
"I was in some doubt as to whether such a stateroom was available, as this is the busy season; but on reference to our list, I found that there was such a stateroom. A customer to whom we had sold it had just called at the office, saying that he would not be able to sail, and leaving his tickets with us to resell, if possible. When I told the man of this, he seemed very pleased, took the tickets, and gave me the seven hundred-franc notes. My attention was called to them because they were quite new and unfolded. He took them from a long envelope which he carried in an inner pocket, and which seemed to contain a large sum of money."
"Do you remember the number of the stateroom?"
The clerk spread out before Lépine a cabin-plan of the ship.
"It was this one, sir," he said, and placed his finger on 514; "an inner room, you see, on the upper deck."
"You asked the man's name, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I caused him to fill out the usual blank. Here it is."
Lépine took the blank and looked it over. It stated that stateroom No. 514, on thePrinzsessin Ottilie, for the sailing of September 27, two berths, second-class, had been purchased of Thomas Cook & Son by Ignace Vard, of New York City, the berths to be used by himself and his daughter; and that he had paid for these berths the sum of six hundred and forty francs, being payment in full, the receipt of which was acknowledged. The blank also stated that Mr. Vard was a naturalised citizen of the United States, and had lived in that country for ten years.
"The sailing was from Cherbourg?" Lépine inquired, when he had assimilated all this.
"Yes, sir."
"At what hour?"
"About four o'clock, sir—four o'clock yesterday afternoon."
"How did it happen, sir," Lépine asked, turning to the manager, "that the notes were not deposited until yesterday?"
"Our deposit is made up at three o'clock each afternoon," the manager explained. "The notescame in too late for Tuesday's deposit, and were placed in our safe until the next day."
Lépine made a brief entry in his notebook, handed back the blank and rose.
"I thank you very much, gentlemen," he said. "You have been most obliging. The information you have given me will be of the very greatest service."
And with that he took his leave, returned light-heartedly to his office and sent a wireless to the captain of theOttilie. The fugitive could not escape him now; it was merely a question of arresting him as he left the boat at New York; soon, soon, Lépine would have the pleasure of putting him on the grill, and, once there, the detective felt sure that there would be some important revelations before he got off again. One fact surprised him—that Vard should be an American citizen; but perhaps that was not the truth. If it was the truth, it would make the arrest at New York a little awkward; a formal complaint would have to be made, a charge of some kind trumped up. But there was no hurry—a week remained in which to mature the plans.
So Lépine, after sending a brief report in cipher to M. Delcassé, turned to the work which had accumulated during his absence in a happier and more contented frame of mind than he had enjoyed for some days.
"I shall relish my lunch to-day!" he reflected; but, alas! it was just as he was preparing to sally forth for it that the blow fell.
"A message for you, sir," his secretary said, and handed him a light-blue envelope.
"Ah!" said Lépine, "a wireless!" and he ripped it open eagerly. Then he remained staring at it with astounded eyes. Here is the message:
"Prinzsessin Ottilie, September 28, 11:10A. M.Radio via Cherbourg."Lépine, Paris."No record of Ignace Vard and daughter onOttilie. Stateroom 514 unoccupied."Hausmann, Captain."
"Prinzsessin Ottilie, September 28, 11:10A. M.Radio via Cherbourg.
"Lépine, Paris.
"No record of Ignace Vard and daughter onOttilie. Stateroom 514 unoccupied.
"Hausmann, Captain."
The old town of Cherbourg was experiencing its semi-weekly apotheosis. For five days of the seven a duller place would be difficult to find, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when the great trans-Atlantic liners were due to pause in the outer harbour and take aboard the multitudes homeward-bound to America, the town was transfigured. The transfiguration, indeed, began on the previous evenings, for it was then that the less-knowing and more timid of the tourists began to arrive.
The knowing ones, having once tasted the Lethe of Cherbourg, remained in Paris until the last minute, and stepped from the boat-train to the waiting tender. But the less well-informed came on the day before—and never, for the remainder of their lives, forgot the dulness of their last day in Europe. Then there were the nervously-anxious, their peace of mind already wrecked by the vagaries of the European baggage-system, who dared not run the risk of arriving at the last moment. So they, too, journeyed to Cherbourg the day before the sailing-date, in order to have a clear twenty-four hours inwhich to search for the pieces which were certain to be missing. That day at Cherbourg was always an expensive one, for the hotel-keepers of the place, having to live for seven days on the proceeds of two, arranged their rates accordingly.
At the edge of the narrow strip of rock-strewn sand which constitutes the beach at Cherbourg, stands the Grand Hotel—familiar name to every traveller in Europe, where even the smallest hamlet has its "Grand." The one at Cherbourg is a rambling, three-storied frame structure, with a glass-enclosed dining-room overlooking the harbour, and here, at ten o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of September, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eleven, Daniel Webster was disconsolately eating that frugal meal which is the French for breakfast. Not the great Daniel—all well-informed persons are, of course, aware that he passed to his reward some sixty years ago—but a well-built, fresh-faced, rather good-looking young fellow, still on the right side of thirty, who had most inadvisedly chosen to appear in this world of trouble on the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of the great Daniel, and who had forthwith been handicapped with his name.
John Webster, an honest farmer of the Connecticut valley, had always been a worshipper at the shrine of the eloquent New Englander, to whom hefancied himself related, and when, having taken to himself a wife, that wife presented him with a son on the very day when the centenary of his hero's birth was being celebrated, the coincidence appeared to him too momentous to be disregarded, and the boy was christened Daniel.
It was a thing no thoughtful father would have done, and as Dan grew older, he resented his name bitterly. It was the subject of brutal jests from his playmates, resulting in numberless pitched battles, and of still more brutal hazing when he pursued his predestined way through the portals of the university at New Haven. Here he was promptly rechristened Ichabod, and his real name was gradually forgotten.
In the depths of his heart, John Webster may perhaps have hoped that this was to be a real reincarnation. If so, he was doomed to disappointment, for the younger Daniel gave no promise of being either a statesman or an orator. But he took to ink as a duck to water, was never so happy as when his pen was spoiling good white paper, was elected editor of theNews, and, commencement over, took the first train for New York, stormed the office of theRecord, for which he had acted as college correspondent, and demanded a job.
He got it; and began anew the task of living down his name. Always, when introduced or introducinghimself, he saw in the eyes opposite his own that maddening glimmer of amusement. Then he gritted his teeth and waited for the joke. There were fourteen possible forms that it might take. Tempted often to return to that rocky Connecticut hillside, he nevertheless stuck it out, and, as time passed, found he didn't mind so much. He even reached the point where he made bets with himself as to which of the fourteen it would be. And he progressed in other ways: the material symbol of the progress being that, instead of cub reporter at twelve dollars a week, he was now one of the trusted members of the staff at six times that salary.
Also he was seven years older, and this had been his first long vacation—six weeks in England, Belgium, Holland and France—glorious weeks; but his eyes were aching for the lights of Broadway and his fingers itching for the pencil. The most exacting and bewitching of all professions was clamouring for him again.
Having disposed of the rolls and coffee, he rose reluctantly, stepped out upon the beach, and filled and lighted his pipe—with a grimace at the first puff, for French tobacco is the worst in the world, outside of Germany. Before him lay the mighty breakwater which guards the harbour, with its lighthouse in the middle and its fort at either end, while to his left were the great naval basins, hewn from thesolid rock. To the right, below the high sea-wall, the narrow beach stretched away, empty and uninviting.
Dan felt depressed. Cherbourg, evidently, was not an exciting place. He had never seen an uglier beach, but, after a moment's hesitation, he started off along it. Perhaps, farther on, it might improve.
The tide was going out, and in the little basins in the sand minute crabs and strange sea-midgets scuttled about panic-stricken at finding themselves marooned; here and there a stranded jelly-fish glowed like an iridescent soap-bubble, and, farther out, an ugly mud flat began to be revealed by the retreating water. Some distance ahead, a ridge of tumbled rocks ran from the sea-wall down into the water, and, as he drew nearer, he saw that on one of the rocks a girl was sitting.
He glanced at her as he passed, and would have liked to glance again, for he had never met more arresting eyes, but he was going on with face rigidly to the front, when her voice startled him.
"Pardon, monsieur," she said. It was a contralto voice, of a quality that made his pulses leap.
He stopped short and turned toward her, incredulous that it could be he to whom she had spoken. But there was no one else in sight; and then he saw that her hands were gripped tightly in her lap and that her lips were quivering.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, and took a step toward her. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh!" she cried, her face lighting, and a wave of colour sweeping into her cheeks. "Then you are an American!"
"Yes; thank God!"
"So say I!" she echoed. "For myself, I mean. I also am an American. We will speak English, then."
"I should much prefer it," he smiled. "My French is wholly academic—and covered with moss, at that. It doesn't even enable me to get my eggs turned!"
She looked at him, the colour deepening in her cheeks. Dan, looking back, decided that he had never seen such eyes; he could scarcely believe that she was an American. She did not look in the least like one. But she was speaking rapidly.
"I am in trouble," she said, "as the result of my own carelessness. I was crossing these rocks, without watching sufficiently where I was going, and my foot slipped. See," and she swept aside her skirts. "I cannot get it out."
Dan was on his knees in an instant.
"Is it hurt?" he asked.
"I think not; or at most only a little strained. But it is wedged between these big rocks, and I cannot move it."
Dan touched the foot, and found that it was, indeed, wedged fast. Then he examined the rocks, and finally, bending above the smaller one, placed his arms firmly about it, braced his feet and lifted. It would have been worth while to have seen the play of his back and shoulder muscles as the strain tightened, but it was over in a moment. For the rock rose slowly, slowly, and the foot was free. He let the rock drop softly back, stood up and brushed the sand from his sleeves. The girl bent and rubbed her ankle.
"Is it all right?" he asked.
"I think so," and she took an experimental step or two. "Yes; not even sprained. That reminded me of Porthos," she added, looking up at him, her eyes very bright.
He laughed.
"Porthos would have done it with one hand," he said, "while saluting you with the other."
She hesitated a little, looking along the beach; and he, guessing her thought, raised his cap and started to walk on. But again her voice stopped him. Perhaps she, too, was something of a mind-reader.
"I owe you some thanks, you know," she said. "You mustn't go off till I've paid them!"
Dan swung around, his face glowing.
"Not thanks!" he protested. "But if you wouldtake pity on a lonely exile and talk to him a little, you'd certainly be doing a noble action!"
"Is it as bad as all that?" and Dan noticed how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
"You can't imagine how lonely I've been!" he said. "Especially the past few days. I didn't feel it so much till I was starting home. America!" and he took off his hat.
"The land of freedom!" she added, softly.
"Do you feel it that way, too?" he asked eagerly. "I've never been much of a patriot—just took things as a matter of course, I guess; but six weeks in Europe is enough to make a patriot of any American. Whenever I see the old flag, I feel like going down on my knees and kissing it. I've just begun to realise what it stands for!"
She had turned back toward the hotel, walking slowly with Dan beside her, and her face was beaming as she looked up at him.
"You are right—oh, so right!" she cried. "And how much more would you realise it if, like me, you had been born in another country and felt for yourself the injustice, the oppression, of which you have seen only a little! For such as I, America is indeed the Promised Land!"
So she was foreign-born! Dan glanced at her with a shy curiosity.
"You are a Russian?" he asked. "Pardon me if I seem intrusive."
"You do not. No, I am not a Russian. Worse than that! I am a Pole!"
The words were uttered with a tragic emphasis which left him speechless. He could think of nothing to say that was not banal or superficial, and he realised that here were deep waters! He glanced once or twice at her face, which had grown suddenly dark and brooding; then, with a little motion of her hands, she seemed to push her thoughts away.
"You do not know much of Polish history, perhaps," she said, in a lighter tone. "But if you are fond of tales of heroism, you should read it, for it is one long heroism. It will help you to realise more fully what your flag stands for. It is my flag, too; I have lived in America nearly ten years; and never do I grow so angry as when I hear an American speak slightingly of his country. Here is the hotel. Forgive me for talking like this; but it has done me good to meet you!"
"And me!" he said. "Must you go in?"
"Yes; my father will be wondering where I am. Good-bye."
She held out her hand and gave his a frank little pressure. Then she turned and left him.
He watched until the door swung shut behind her;then he walked on slowly, past the great basins, over the drawbridge, along the crooked streets of the old town, past the station, and finally he stopped in the shadow of a crag of rock which sprang abruptly three hundred feet into the air. Its summit was crowned by the frowning walls of the great fort which commands the harbour, and along the face of the cliff, blue with heather, a narrow footpath wound deviously upward. He ascended this for a little way, and then stopped, his elbows on the wall which guarded it. Before him stretched the bay, shielded by its jetty, and beyond rolled the white-capped ocean. That way lay America.
"The land of freedom!" he murmured, and his eyes were bright. "The land of freedom!"