On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with the _L’Escaut_ should be possible by wireless, and he returned to the Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call, requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital. “Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the Belgian police.” He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales. Chapter XVIII A Visitor from India When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform was Maxwell Cheyne. “They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,” the young man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. “Any news? Anything about Miss Merrill?” He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the Inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were attracting curious looks from the bystanders. “Get a taxi,” French answered quietly. “We can talk there.” A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the other by the arm, went on earnestly: “Tell me. I can see you have learned something. Is she—all right?” “I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.” “To sea?” “Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well. Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.” A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient facts which French had learned, and the latter in his turn asked for news. “By Jove, yes!” Cheyne cried, “there is news. You remember that Arnold Price had disappeared? Well, yesterday I had a letter from him!” “You don’t say so?” French rejoined in surprise. “Where did he write from?” “Bombay. He was shortly leaving for home. He expects to be here in about a month.” “And what about his disappearance?” “He was ill in hospital. He had gone up to Agra on some private business and met with an accident—was knocked down in the street and was insensible for ages. He couldn’t say who he was, and the hospital people in Agra couldn’t find out, and he hadn’t told the Bombay people where he was going to spend his leave.” “Did he mention the letter?”