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 occupied that 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 them up, 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."