“But a warrant is out for him, of course?”
“Certainly. His arrest is demanded for breaking from prison. His escape is one of the most daring on record. He swam for five miles in the sea on a dark night, and met with most extraordinary adventures before a Dutch captain allowed him to work his passage to Rotterdam.”
“But he will not dare to put foot in London, I suppose. He would be liable to extradition to France.”
“Who knows? He is one of the most fearless and ingenious men I have ever known. He can so alter his appearance as to deceive even me.”
“But the metropolitan police, knowing that Sylvia—I mean Sonia—is his daughter, may be watching my house!” I exclaimed in alarm.
“That is more than likely,” he admitted. “Hence, if you want to allow madame, your wife, an opportunity to approach you, you should go abroad somewhere—to some quiet place where you would not be suspected. Let me know where you go, and perhaps I can manage to convey to them the fact that you are waiting there.”
The hotel at Gardone—that fine lake-side hotel where I had first seen Sonia—occurred to me. And I told him.
“Very well,” he said cheerfully. “I shall return to Paris to-morrow, and if I can obtain any information from either of the prisoners, I will manage to let Poland know that his son-in-law awaits him.”
Then I thanked the great detective, and, shaking hands warmly, we parted.
What Guertin had told me regarding the strange discovery of a man who closely resembled him outside Poland’s house on the night of the latter’s arrest held me much puzzled. Even he, the all-powerful chief of the sûreté, had failed to solve the enigma.