Without some strong motive, such as the receipt of the telegram of distress, she would certainly never have left her mother and travelled so hastily back to Brussels.
For over an hour he sat at the open window trying to solve the problem, and hoping that Monsieur Guiette’s inquiries would have some result. She would certainly have to show her passport at the frontier, where a register would be kept.
Day broke, but he did not return to bed. At five he dressed, and then, after his coffee, he strolled anxiously down the Montagne de la Cour in the morning sunshine towards the Bourse, waiting for midday, when he had arranged to call again at the Prefecture, and hear the result of the inquiries at the frontier.
Noon came at last, and he again sat in Monsieur Guiette’s dull drab room.
“Well, m’sieur,” exclaimed the bald-headed little official, “it seems that mademoiselle, the South Américaine, left Paris as you allege, travelled by the train you mention, and showed her passport at the frontier. She told the passport officer that she was going to the Palace Hotel here, but evidently on arrival changed her mind. Then,” he added, “she was noted by the police at the barrier when she arrived, and was seen to be met by somebody—a woman.”
“Met by a woman?”
“Yes. Here our information becomes a little hazy,” replied the great detective. “One witness says that the woman outside the barrier rushed up to her and gave her some message, while another witness, the collector of tickets, declares that it was a little old man who speaks English, and sometimes acts as guide, who met her.”
“But what happened then?” exclaimed Geoffrey bewildered.
“Both persons tell the same story, that a car was in waiting, and that the young lady entered it very hurriedly, apparently much upset at what had been told her, and was driven away.”
“Driven away into the unknown—eh?”