He continued turning the matter over in his mind in his slow, painstaking way until a sudden plunge into a tunnel and a grinding of brakes warned him they were coming into Dover.
The crossing was calm and uneventful. Before they passed between the twin piers at Calais the sun had burst out, the clouds were thinning, and blue sky showing in the distance.
They made a good run to Paris, stopping only at Amiens, and at 5.45 precisely drew slowly into the vast, echoing vault of the Gare du Nord. Calling a taxi, the Inspector drove to a small private hotel he usually patronised in the rue Castiglione. Having secured his room, he re-entered the taxi and went to the Sûreté, the Scotland Yard of Paris.
He inquired for M. Chauvet, sending in his letter of introduction. The Chief was in and disengaged, and after a few minutes delay Inspector Burnley was ushered into his presence.
M. Chauvet, Chef de la Sûreté, was a small, elderly man with a dark, pointed beard, gold-rimmed glasses, and an exceedingly polite manner.
‘Sit down, Mr. Burnley,’ he said in excellent English, as they shook hands. ‘I think we have had the pleasure of co-operating with you before?’
Burnley reminded him of the Marcelle murder case.
‘Ah, of course, I remember. And now you are bringing us another of the same kind. Is it not so?’
‘Yes, sir, and a rather puzzling one also. But I am in hopes we have enough information to clear it up quickly.’
‘Good, I hope you have. Please let me have, in a word or two, the briefest outline, then I shall ask you to go over it again in detail.’