"A message for you, M. Juve."
The detective, hurrying home, was passing the porter's lodge. He pulled up short.
"For me?"
"Yes—it's certainly your name on the telegram."
Juve took the blue envelope with distrust and uneasiness. He had given his home address to no one. He glanced over the message, and gave a sigh of relief.
"The dear fellow," he muttered as he went upstairs. "He's had a narrow escape; however, all's well than ends well."
After a hurried toilet and a bite of dinner, Juve set off again, jumped into a train for the Boulevard St. Germain and got down at the Jardin des Plantes. Then, sauntering casually along, he made for Bercy by the docks, which were covered as far as the eye could see with rows and rows of barrels.
About two hours later, Juve, who had been wandering about the vast labyrinth of wine-docks, began to grow impatient.
It was already fifty minutes past the appointed hour, and the detective began to feel uneasy. Why was Fandor so late? Something must surely have happened to him! And then what a queer idea to choose such a meeting place!