“Liverpool police wire Vanes went aboard Enoch and did not go ashore again. Mackay was watching ship for Henson and saw them. They must still be on board. Follow ship to Oporto or Lisbon.”
“Come ashore, Carter,” French cried rapidly, rushing to the side. The boat was actually moving, but the two men, jumping, reached the wharf amid the execrations of the Captain and staff.
“Here, officer,” he called, beckoning to the gendarme, who had watched the proceedings with a horrified interest, “how do you get quickly to Headquarters?”
The man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and indicated in dumb show that he did not understand. French hailed a passing taxi and pushed his companions in.
“Monsieur le chef!” he cried to the bewildered gendarme, producing and tapping the telegram. “Monsieur le chef?”
The man understood. A smile dawned on his perturbed countenance, and with a rapid flow of French he gave the required address. In ten minutes they were once more at the gendarmerie, French still clamouring for “Monsieur le chef.”
He was shown into the room of the same polite officer whom he had previously met.
“Ah,” the latter said, “so my man was in time. You got your telegram?”
“Yes, sir, I did, and greatly obliged to you I am for your trouble. But I can’t make head or tail of the thing. Those ship’s officers this morning were absolutely positive the wanted couple had not sailed.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.