“Well, no, sir,” he answered slowly. “It’s not easy to see what they’re after. And it’s not easy to see, either, why the whole gang wanted to go. It looked at first as if they were just clearing out because of Cheyne’s coming to the Yard, but it’s more than that. The arrangements were made too long ago. They have been dealing with that Antwerp firm for several weeks.” “The hard copper was all a story?” “Looks like it, sir. As a matter of fact every single statement those men made that could be tested has been proved false. Even when there didn’t seem any great object in a yarn they pitched it. Lies seemed to come easier to them.” “Well, I’ve known a good few cases of that, and so have you, French. It’s a habit that grows. Now, what’s your next move?” French hesitated. “For the moment the outlook’s not very cheery,” he said at last. “All the same I can’t believe that boat can go away out of the Scheldt and disappear. In my judgment she’s bound to be reported before long, and I’m looking forward to getting word of her within the next day or so. Then I have no doubt that the tracing is some kind of cipher, and if we could read it we should probably get light on the whole affair.” “Why shouldn’t you read it? Try it again.” “I intend to, sir. But I don’t hope for much result, because I don’t believe we’ve got the genuine document. I don’t believe they would have handed it, nor a copy of it either, to a man they intended to murder, lest it should be found on his body. I’d state long odds they gave him a fake.” “I think you’re probably right,” the chief admitted. “Try at all events. You never know your luck.” He bent over his desk, and French, realizing that the interview had come to an end, quietly left the room. Then, seeing there was nothing requiring his attention urgently, and tired after his journey, he went home. But contrary to his expectations, the next day passed without any news of the _L’Escaut_, and the next, and many days after that. Nor could all his efforts with the tracing throw any light on that mysterious document. As time passed he began to grow more and more despondent, and the fear that he was going to make a mess of the case grew steadily stronger. In vain he laid his difficulties before his wife. For once that final source of inspiration failed him. Mrs. French did not take even one illuminating notion. When the third week had gone by, something akin to despair seized upon the Inspector. The only possibility of hope now seemed to lie in the return of Arnold Price, and French began counting the days until his arrival. One night about three weeks after his return from Belgium he settled down with a cigar after dinner, his thoughts running in their familiar groove: What were these people engaged on? Was there any way in which he could find out? Had he overlooked any evidence or any inquiries? Had he neglected any possible line of research?