III
Clement Seadon was for the moment dazed by the dismaying unexpectedness of the news.
He had lost. Mr. Neuburg and his gang had not wasted a moment. They had whipped the girl out of his reach. They had effectually put a barrier of distance between him and Heloise.
He had a bitter vision of Heloise traveling away from him—away through this vast country where communications were scarce. She was more completely in the clutches of those terrible and sinister people with every mile she traveled, and he was less able to help. He stared at the porter. “She’s gone,” he said. “She—didn’t the lady leave a message?”
“None, sir. She seemed to expect that you was going to see her.”
“Yes,” said Seadon. He could understand how bewildered Heloise must have been when he did not keep his appointment of this morning. “And you’re sure she went to Montreal?”
“Yessir,” said the porter. Some one touched Clement’s arm, somebody said, “Seadon, old fellow....” Clement waved this hand aside without looking round. “Just one minute,” he said. Then to the porter, “You’re sure it was Montreal? I mean she wasn’t going further? Through to Sicamous, for example?”
“Sure, they’re stopping off at Montreal, her and her lady fren’. Didn’t I check their baggage to Montreal?”
Clement thought for a moment. What did that mean? Did it mean that Heloise would stop in Montreal, or did it mean that she was merely changing trains there in order to go to the place—wherever it was—where Henry Gunning was lurking at the moment? That seemed the more likely, and it was the more dismaying. She was going to some unknown town in the tremendous continent. It filled him with dread even to think of it.
His arm was touched again. He thanked the porter, turned, and saw the captain of the Empress of Prague by his side. “Hello, Heavy,” he said.
“I’ve been looking for you, old chap,” said the captain. “I want you to meet The Chief.”
“The Chief,” echoed Clement vaguely. He saw a man of middle height with astonishingly thick, square shoulders standing by the captain’s side. He was a man with a firm, sunburned face in which big bones showed strongly. His nose was powerful and high-bridged, and the skin round the eyes was dark. The eyes were extraordinarily steady and keen, and, since he was smiling, his face had a singularly pleasant, indeed, tender kindness which tempered its undoubted resolution. Clement looked at this man, and knew him for a staunch and extremely capable friend at once. He said again, “The Chief?”
“He’s our policeman,” said the genial captain. “He’s down here to find out why you weren’t arrested in that diamond tiara affair on the Empress.”
“Is he, by Jove?” cried Clement abruptly, glancing at the strong, intelligent face of The Chief with a sudden feeling of hope.
“He’s the head of the railway police organization,” explained Captain Heavy. “Not the Dominion police, mind you. His name, by the way, is Joseph Fiscal. And, seriously, he’d like a few words with you regarding that robbery.”
“He’s the very man I’m wanting myself,” said Clement heartily, to the surprise of the captain—nothing yet created seemed able to surprise The Chief. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”