This seemed to French to be all he could get, and after some further talk he and the superintendent took their leave.
“He’s loaded up the crate here in Swansea, at all events,” French exclaimed when they were in the street. “That seems to postulate docks and stations. I wonder if I can trespass still further on your good nature, Superintendent?”
“Of course. I’ll send men round first thing to-morrow. It’s too late to-night; all the places would be shut.”
“Thanks. Then I’ll turn up early in the morning.”
At the nearest telegraph office French sent a message to the Yard to have enquiries made at the St. Pancras Hotel as to the mysterious Mr. John F. Stewart. Then, tired from his exertions, he returned to his hotel at Burry Port.
Early next morning he was back in Swansea. It was decided that with a constable who knew the docks he, French, was to apply at the various steamship offices, while other men were to try the railway stations and road transport agencies. If these failed, the local firms and manufacturers who usually sent out their products in crates were to be called on. French did not believe that the search would be protracted.
This view speedily proved correct. He had visited only three offices when a constable arrived with a message. News of the crate had been obtained at the Morriston Road Goods Station.
Fifteen minutes later French reached the place. He was met at the gate by Sergeant Jefferies, who had made the discovery.
“I asked in the goods office first, sir,” the sergeant explained, “but they didn’t remember anything there. Then I came out to the yard and began enquiring from the porters. At the fifth shot I found a man who remembered loading the crate. I didn’t question him further, but sent you word.”
“That was right, Sergeant. We shall soon get what we want. This the man?”