"England, America, Germany," Delcassé went on, speaking half to himself, "these nations, with navies greater than ours, never have such accidents. Small explosions, sometimes, it is true, wrecking a gun or damaging a turret—but never destroying a whole ship! Is it merely because they are never careless?"
"There was the Maine," the President reminded him.
Delcassé's hand went to his moustache to hide the ironic smile upon his lips. In that close-cropped head of his, along with many other such secrets, was that of the cause of the catastrophe in Havana harbour. In all the chancellories of Europe, it was agreed that the Maine had been destroyed by the spontaneous explosion of her own magazines. Four men knew the truth, and Delcassé was one of them. There had been a fifth, but an assassin's bullet killed him.
In an instant Delcassé's face was composed, and his eyes, behind their immense glasses, as inscrutable as ever. The President, so ingenuous and child-like, must never suspect the truth!
"True!" Delcassé agreed. "There was the Maine! I had forgotten that," and he relapsed into thoughtful silence.
Evening came, and still the train rolled southward, past Macon, past Lyons, past Vienne, everywhere greeted by surging crowds. At the latter place, Delcassé arose and, with an almost imperceptible nod to Lépine, entered the last car. The Prefect followed him, and a few minutes later, they were closeted together in a compartment, where, at a word from his superior, Inspector Pigot had joined them.
"And now," began Delcassé, when the door was closed and the train had started again, "tell me what you think of this affair, Lépine."
The little grey man spread his hands wide with a gesture of helplessness.
"At this moment I know no more than you, sir," he answered; "probably not so much. By morning, I shall have a report ready for you."
"We shall not arrive until after midnight," the Minister pointed out.