“Monsieur was much occupied at the time, and, indeed, then we had not heard of your inquiry.”
“I notified the station-master quite early, two or three hours since, about 9 A.M. This is most exasperating!”
“Instructions to look out for this woman have only just reached us, monsieur. There were certain formalities, I suppose.”
For once the detective cursed in his heart the red-tape, roundabout ways of French officialism.
“Well, well! Tell me about her,” he said, with a resignation he did not feel. “Who saw her?”
“I, monsieur. I spoke to her myself. She was on the outside of the station, alone, unprotected, in a state of agitation and alarm. I went up and offered my services. Then she told me she had come from Dijon, that friends who were to have met her had not appeared. I suggested that I should put her into a cab and send her to her destination. But she was afraid of losing her friends, and preferred to wait.”
“A fine story! Did she appear to know what had happened? Had she heard of the murder?”
“Something, monsieur.”
“Who could have told her? Did you?”
“No, not I. But she knew.”