Next day, I was up early, but recognised the futility of watching at the Poste Restante until the daylight faded. On the other hand, if Mrs. Petre was actually in that city, she would have no fear to go about openly. Yet, after due consideration, I decided not to go to the post office till twilight set in.
The morning I spent idling on the Boulevards and in the cafés, but I became sick of such inactivity, for I was frantically eager and anxious to learn the truth.
At noon I made up my mind, and taking a taxi, alighted at the Préfecture of Police, where, after some time, I was seen by the Chef du Sureté, a grey-haired, dry-as-dust looking official—a narrow-eyed little man, in black, whose name was Monsieur Van Huffel, and who sat at a writing-table in a rather bare room, the walls of which were painted dark green. He eyed me with some curiosity as I entered and bowed.
"Be seated, I pray, m'sieur," he said in French, indicating a chair on the opposite side of the table, and leaning back, placed his fingers together in a judicial attitude.
The police functionary on the continent is possessed of an ultra-grave demeanour, and is always of a funereal type.
"M'sieur wishes to make an inquiry, I hear?" he began.
"Yes," I said. "I am very anxious to know whether you have any report of a young person named Marie Bracq being missing."
"Marie Bracq!" he echoed in surprise, leaning forward towards me. "And what do you know, m'sieur, regarding Marie Bracq?"
"I merely called to ascertain if any person of that name, is reported to you as missing," I said, much surprised at the effect which mention of the victim had produced upon him.
"You are English, of course?" he asked.