“It is, I find, true, monsieur, that an Englishman named Audley, christian name Stanley, native of London, was motoring with two men named Armand Raves and Henry Chest on the road between Langeais and Cinq-Mars, when, in turning a sharp corner, they ran into a wall, and the Englishman was injured. He was brought to the St. Jean Hospital here, put to bed unconscious and died four days later. In his pocket was found a wallet containing a number of notes of the Banque d’Angleterre of five pounds and fifty pounds. They were sent by us to the Banque de France to hold for any claim by relatives, but curious enough, they were at once recognized as forgeries!”
“Forgeries!” I gasped, pretending ignorance.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said the Prefect of Police, while the Inspector spread out his papers on his Chief’s desk.
“This telegram, Monsieur, is from the Bank of England, in London, sent through Scotland Yard, and says, ‘Numbers of notes reported in telegram of 5th are part of South American forgeries. Kindly send them to us for record.’ They have been sent to London,” he added.
“But the men who were in the car with Mr. Audley. Where are they?”
“Ah! Monsieur! We do not know,” replied the shrewd old French official. “We only know the names and addresses they gave to the agent of police.”
“The addresses they gave proved false, Monsieur le Prefect,” remarked the inspector. “But we photographed them all—including the dead man,—and we have a hue-and-cry out for them.”
“You have a photograph of the dead man!” I cried.
“Yes, Monsieur. It is on file among our photographs.”
“Cannot I see it?” I asked.