Pointer crossed that night. He had a little talk with a Frenchman in plain clothes who seemed to be expecting him at the station before Lille, and, descending on the platform of that prosperous town, was met by the impatient Mr. Beale and by Watts. “I thought you would never get here. Train's an hour late. He's staying in a room in the Rue Sentier near here under the name of Thompson. He's out just now, and we can wait for him there. The maid thinks I'm a friend of his.” The Chief Inspector nodded briefly and followed Mr. Beale to a corner shop in a quiet street. A side entrance took them up a flight of stairs to the first floor. Here beside the door of a flat was another smaller one. “That's his room.” Mr. Beale rang the bell of the larger door. A French woman opened. Mr. Beale asked for his friend. Mr. Thompson was out again, he was informed, but he would be in shortly. If messieurs his friends cared to wait she would unlock the door for them. She smilingly inserted a key. Pointer thought that the American made as if to shut the door behind him a trifle quickly, but the maid came on into the room and altered a chair. “_Tiens!_ Mr. Thompson is leaving us? Ah, no; there is his trunk. It is only his hand-bag that has gone.” And she left them alone. “Want to examine the trunk?” asked the American. “I suppose your warrant justifies that?” “Quite. Funny about the bag, isn't it?” “That's what startled me. We don't want to slip up on him again.” Pointer thought that Mr. Beale had looked annoyed rather than startled by the maid's question. He himself walked slowly around the room. Watts had been left on duty below. He looked at a box of vestas on the mantelpiece. They were the same as those found in No. 14 of the Enterprise. Certainly for an expert crook the room was strangely bare. A step sounded on the stairs. Mr. Beale jumped behind the door, ready to close it. The police-officer seated himself facing the door. A key was inserted, the door was flung widely open, and a young man with a couple of heavy parcels in his arms entered with a decided limp, but swung the door shut with one agile foot. It was the face Pointer had seen photographed as Green. A resolute, strong face, set on a powerful rangy frame. He caught sight of the impassive figure by the table with the steady eyes fixed on him and stopped. For a second he stood staring, a curious grey creeping under his tan. “I'm not alone, Mr. Carter, and even if I were, violence wouldn't help you,” said the Chief Inspector, rising to his feet. He knew what that tightened jaw meant. “I have a warrant here for your arrest charging you with the murder of Robert Erskine in London on August 4. Of course, as you know, if you wish it I must call in the French authorities; but the end will be the same. It will save time if you come quietly with me back to England and let me arrest you at Dover. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”