“Thirty miles an hour, on the average, do you understand? You’re to drive and rest, turn and turn about. At that rate, you ought to be in Paris between six and seven to-morrow evening. But don’t force the pace. I’m keeping Daubrecq, not because I want him for my plans, but as a hostage . . . and then by way of precaution.... I like to feel that I can lay my hands on him during the next few days. So look after the dear fellow.... Give him a few drops of chloroform every three or four hours: it’s his one weakness.... Off with you, Masher.... And you, Daubrecq, don’t get excited up there. The roof’ll bear you all right.... If you feel at all sick, don’t mind... Off you go, Masher!”
He watched the car move into the distance and then told the cabman to drive to a post-office, where he dispatched a telegram in these words:
“M. Prasville, Prefecture de Police, Paris:
“Person found. Will bring you document eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. Urgent communication.
“Clarisse.”
Clarisse and Lupin reached the station by half-past two.
“If only there’s room!” said Clarisse, who was alarmed at the least thing.
“Room? Why, our berths are booked!”
“By whom?”
“By Jacob . . . by Daubrecq.”