“I mean that I put one of my men on the driver’s seat of a taxi, with instructions to hang about at the bottom of the lane, and that Siméon did not fail to take the taxi in question.”
“That is to say, you suppose so,” Patrice corrected him, feeling more and more astounded.
“I recognized the sound of the engine at the bottom of the garden when I told you.”
“And are you sure of your man?”
“Certain.”
“What’s the use? Siméon can drive far out of Paris, stab the man in the back . . . and then when shall we get to know?”
“Do you imagine that people can get out of Paris and go running about the high-roads without a special permit? No, if Siméon leaves Paris he will have to drive to some railway station or other and we shall know of it twenty minutes after. And then we’ll be off.”
“How?”
“By motor.”
“Then you have a pass?”