Dr. Delattre was brought back to 78, Rue Duret, at nine o’clock this morning, in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed.
No. 78, Rue Duret, is the address of Dr. Delattre’s clinical surgery, at which he arrives every morning at the same hour. When we sent in our card, the doctor, though closeted with the chief of the detective service, was good enough to consent to receive us.
“All that I can tell you,” he said, in reply to our questions, “is that I was treated with the greatest consideration. My three companions were the most charming people I have ever met, exquisitely well-mannered and bright and witty talkers: a quality not to be despised, in view of the length of the journey.”
“How long did it take?”
“About four hours and as long returning.”
“And what was the object of the journey?”
“I was taken to see a patient whose condition rendered an immediate operation necessary.”
“And was the operation successful?”
“Yes, but the consequences may be dangerous. I would answer for the patient here. Down there—under his present conditions—”
“Bad conditions?”