When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform was Maxwell Cheyne.
“They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,” the young man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. “Any news? Anything about Miss Merrill?”
He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the Inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were attracting curious looks from the bystanders.
“Get a taxi,” French answered quietly. “We can talk there.”
A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the other by the arm, went on earnestly:
“Tell me. I can see you have learned something. Is she—all right?”
“I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.”
“To sea?”
“Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well. Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.”
A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient facts which French had learned, and the latter in his turn asked for news.