On the platform, Froberval, the dockyard clerk who had given hospitality to M. Beautrelet, senior, was waiting for him, accompanied by his daughter Charlotte, an imp of twelve or thirteen.
“Well?” cried Isidore.
The worthy man beginning to moan and groan, he interrupted him, dragged him to a neighboring tavern, ordered coffee and began to put plain questions, without permitting the other the slightest digression:
“My father has not been carried off, has he? It was impossible.”
“Impossible. Still, he has disappeared.”
“Since when?”
“We don’t know.”
“What!”
“No. Yesterday morning, at six o’clock, as I had not seen him come down as usual, I opened his door. He was gone.”
“But was he there on the day before, two days ago?”