“Monsieur le chef!” he cried to the bewildered gendarme, producing and tapping the telegram. “Monsieur le chef?” The man understood. A smile dawned on his perturbed countenance, and with a rapid flow of French he gave the required address. In ten minutes they were once more at the gendarmerie, French still clamouring for “Monsieur le chef.” He was shown into the room of the same polite officer whom he had previously met. “Ah,” the latter said, “so my man was in time. You got your telegram?” “Yes, sir, I did, and greatly obliged to you I am for your trouble. But I can’t make head or tail of the thing. Those ship’s officers this morning were absolutely positive the wanted couple had not sailed.” The officer shrugged his shoulders. “Doubtless,” he said smoothly. “All the same I thought you should have the message, lest you should wish to follow up the steamer as suggested.” “I have no choice,” French returned. “It is an order from Headquarters. Perhaps, sir, you would add to your already great kindness by telling me my route. With this confounded difference of language I feel myself all at sea.” The officer, who had seemed bored as to the movements of the Vanes, became once more the efficient, interested consultant. The obvious route, he said, was via Paris. It was true that you could get across country to pick up the international express at Bordeaux, but Paris was quicker and more comfortable. Fortunately, French had returned in time to catch the midday train to the capital. It left at 12.40, and he could easily reach the station and book in the twenty minutes which remained before that hour. His time from the receipt of the wire until the Paris express pulled out of Havre station had been so fully occupied that French had not been able seriously to consider the message sent. Now, seated in the corner of a second-class compartment with Carter opposite, he drew the flimsy sheet from his pocket and reread it carefully. He understood the reference to Mackay and Henson. Detective-Sergeant Mackay was one of the best men of the Liverpool detective staff, and he was on a very similar job to French’s own. He was watching the outgoing steamers in the hope of capturing one Charles Henson, who with a couple of others had made a sensational raid on a country bank, and after murdering the manager, had got away with a large haul from the safe. French knew Mackay personally, and he was satisfied that if he had said the Vanes had gone on board and remained there, they had done so.