He pushed the door. It opened. But Don Luis was no longer in the cabin.
Immediate enquiries showed that no one had seen him go, neither the men remaining on the wharf nor those who had already crossed the gangway.
“When you have time to examine this barge thoroughly,” said Patrice, “I’ve no doubt you will find it pretty nicely faked.”
“So your friend has probably escaped through some trap-door and swum away?” asked M. Masseron, who seemed greatly annoyed.
“I expect so,” said Patrice, laughing. “Unless he’s gone off on a submarine!”
“A submarine in the Seine?”
“Why not? I don’t believe that there’s any limit to my friend’s resourcefulness and determination.”
But what completely dumbfounded M. Masseron was the discovery, on the table, of a letter directed to himself, the letter which Don Luis had placed there at the beginning of his interview with Patrice.
“Then he knew that I should come here? He foresaw, even before we met, that I should ask him to fulfil certain formalities?”
The letter ran as follows: