The hotel was in an uproar; the wildest suggestions rained on the distracted chauffeur. He pulled himself together; rose; called to the hotel-keeper, who was mechanically searching the yard for the vanished car:
"Where is the police station? I must warn the police. That priest and corporal cannot have got so very far in two hours! They did not leave together: they had to meet somewhere: they may not know how to manage the car ... that means delay—a breakdown, perhaps!"
Mine host of The Flowery Crossways was all the more ready to help the chauffeur in that he had been cheated! Such fugitives would never pay him the eighteen francs they owed him for bed and board unless they were caught and made to disgorge.
"I will come with you to the police station," he announced. "I have my complaint to make also!"
At the police station they saw the police sergeant himself. The chauffeur had barely begun his tale of woe when the sergeant interrupted with the smile of one imparting good news:
"You state that you have lost a motor-car. Does it happen to be red, and will seat four persons?"
"Yes. That's it! Have you seen it?"
"Does it happen to have for number 1430 G-7?"
"Exact!... Has it passed this way?"
"Wait!... Were there not goatskin wraps inside?"