His second call was on the chief of police. He wished to find out whether that official was displaying any unusual amount of energy. No, he was not. He sat quietly at his desk, and only looked up with a yawn when Captain White's head was stuck in the doorway, with a query as to whether there was anything new going on.
There was nothing beyond the usual routine, and Captain White strolled up to the station.
The telegraph operator was not a particular friend of his. Indeed, they had lately quarrelled over some delayed telegrams with regard to an order for sardines, and the red-headed operator glanced curiously at the usually busy captain, who, in a strangely lazy way, lounged about his office for the space of an hour and a half.
At the end of that time, however, Captain White disappeared. He had been stretched on a bench reading a newspaper, but at the stroke of twelve he got up, looked at his watch, and dawdled outside.
Once around the corner of the brick building, however, he hastily entered a carriage, made some remark in a low voice to the driver, and was conducted at a smart pace through the town, and at a rattling one outside it, until he reached French Cross.
Without the formality of a ring he entered the old château, and ran up-stairs to Miss Gastonguay's room.
"H. Robinson is on his way down!" he ejaculated, when the door was thrown open. "He has got wind of the affair. I learned telegraphy when I was young, and just heard the message humming over the wires. We must get you out of this," and he looked at the man on the sofa as if he had known him all his life.
The latter got up, and, in weary haste and without surprise, donned his feminine garments.
Miss Gastonguay grew deathly pale. "What about Derrice?"
"What about Derrice's good name?" said Captain White, sharply. "Come, let us get out of this. Where is the other one?" and he brushed past her to the dressing-room.