“Of course, naturally. Well, monsieur, were I in your place I should certainly go to Caen. It is an interesting old town, well worth a visit. There is a steamer all the way, but you would scarcely have time for that; it is rather slow. I should recommend you to go to Trouville by steamer—it’s just across the bay—and then go on from there to Caen by rail. In the time at your disposal I really do not think you could do anything better.” French thanked him, and the other continued, “The steamer sails according to the tide. To-day,” he glanced at an almanac, “it leaves at midday. You should get to Caen about two, and you could dine there and come back in the evening in time for your boat.” At ten minutes to twelve French and his satellite reached the wharf, having delayed on their walk down town to consume bocks in one of the many attractive cafés in the main streets. They took tickets and went on board the little steamer. The day was cold though fine, and there were but few travellers. They strolled about, interested in the novel scene, and at last finding two seats in the lee of the funnel, sat down to await the start. Midday came, and with leisurely movements the horn was blown, the gangway run ashore, and the ropes slacked. The Captain put his lips to the engine-room speaking tube, but before he could give his order an interruption came from the shore. Shouts arose and a man in the blue uniform of a gendarme appeared running towards the boat and gesticulating wildly. The Captain paused, the slackened ropes were pulled tight, and all concerned stood expectant. The gendarme jumped on board and ran up the steps to the bridge, eagerly watched by the entire ship’s company. He spoke rapidly to the Captain, and then the latter turned to the staring passengers below. “Monsieur Fr-r-onsh?” he called in stentorian tones, looking inquiringly round the upturned faces. “Monsieur Fr-r-onsh de Londres?” “It’s you, sir,” cried Carter. “There’s something up.” French hastened to the bridge and the gendarme handed him a blue envelope. “De monsieur le chef,” he explained with a rapid salute, as he hastened ashore. It was a telegram, and it contained news which, as it were, brought the Inspector up all standing. It was from the Yard and read: “Liverpool police wire Vanes went aboard _Enoch_ and did not go ashore again. Mackay was watching ship for Henson and saw them. They must still be on board. Follow ship to Oporto or Lisbon.” “Come ashore, Carter,” French cried rapidly, rushing to the side. The boat was actually moving, but the two men, jumping, reached the wharf amid the execrations of the Captain and staff. “Here, officer,” he called, beckoning to the gendarme, who had watched the proceedings with a horrified interest, “how do you get quickly to Headquarters?” The man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and indicated in dumb show that he did not understand. French hailed a passing taxi and pushed his companions in.