Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman, a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to the L’Escaut, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.
In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.
“You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée Steen, is it not so? Bon! We haf walked along all the quays near to that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not? Bon! They would come to the other side.”
French did not understand.
“The other side?” he repeated questioningly.
“But yes, monsieur, the other side.” The young fellow’s eyes flashed in his eagerness. “Over there, La Gare de Waes.” He pointed out across the great stream to its west bank.
“I didn’t know there was a station across there,” French admitted. “Where does the line go to?”
“Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet railway. They come unseen.”
“Good man,” said French heartily. “We’ll go and find out. How do you get to the blessed place?”
M. Renard smiled delightedly.