In Paris he dined at the buffet like one in a dream, and, at the appointed hour, came forth to take the _rapide_ for Marseilles. He looked for Darrell and the dressing-case. They were not to be seen. There stood the train. Passengers were mounting into it. Old ladies with agitated faces were buying pillows and nibbling biscuits. Elderly gentlemen with yellow countenances and red ribands in their coats were purchasing the _Figaro_ and the _Gil Blas_. Children with bare legs were being hauled into compartments. Rook’s agent was explaining to a muddled tourist in a tam-o’-shanter the exact difference between the words “_Oui_” and “_Non_.” The bustle of departure was in the air, but Darrell was not to be seen. Mr. Greyne had left him upon the platform with minute directions as to the point from which the train would start and the hour of its going. Yet he had vanished. The most frantic search, the most frenzied inquiries of officials and total strangers, failed to elicit his whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung forcibly upward into the _wagonlit_, and caught by the _contrôleur_ when the train was actually moving out of the station. A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of his compartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly alone; without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges, pajamas, shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of the sea journey with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival in Africa with no humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at the black inhabitants and help him through the customs—to say nothing of the manners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which he must penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious “Catherine.” He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all—Darrell, whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern fastnesses of crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank, its even boisterous sincerity. And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe. The _contrôleur_ came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him the dreadful story. “No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was of value?” “Crocodile, gold fittings.” “Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he will sleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow.” Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He drank a stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and went to bed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim. When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven, miserable man. “Have I time to buy a tooth-brush,” he inquired anxiously at the station, “before the boat sails for Algiers?”