“Where you—allez—go?” jerked out the man as they tore along. Tanner understood.
“Lisbon,” he called.
“Ah, Lisbonne. Oui,” the man nodded.
Suddenly they came to a great building—Tanner did not know his Paris—and the car stopped abruptly. The man jumped out followed by his passenger. As they ran into the concourse of the huge Quai d’Orsay Station, the hands of the clock pointed to . Two minutes to get the ticket! Without his new friend Tanner would have been utterly lost. The taking of a ticket seemed a complicated and interminable affair. But at last it was accomplished, and Tanner raced for the bridge across the low level tracks. But just before he reached the inclined plane descending to the platform, the ticket examiner slammed the gate. There was a voluble outcry from the sporting man, but for answer the official shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the roofs of the carriages. The train was already moving.
Once again Tanner swore bitterly, as he gazed at the disappearing vehicles. But his friend gave him no time for self-commiseration.
“Vite! Vite!” he cried, signing to the other to follow him, and rushing once more out of the station.
They threw themselves into the car, which started off at a furious pace eastwards. Then Tanner recollected that the terminus of the Paris-Orleans line had formerly been the Gare d’Austerlitz farther up the river, the Gare Quai d’Orsay being a new station at the end of a recently made extension. All trains, he farther remembered having read, stopped at the Gare d’Austerlitz to enable the electric engine which worked through the extension tunnel to be replaced by a steam locomotive. Evidently his friend thought he could overtake the train at the Austerlitz Station.
And he did—just. After wringing the hand of the man who had taken so much trouble to help him, he dashed to the platform and climbed into a carriage as the train began to move.
“Lord!” he said to himself as he wiped his forehead, “only for that old sport I’d have missed it.”
Then began a long tedious journey. Though the train was rapid and luxurious, Tanner was pretty sick of it before he reached his destination. There was a restaurant car forward, and as they raced across the sunny country south of Paris, the Inspector did full justice to an excellent lunch.
After a time he grew wearied by the monotony of the flat lands, but the scenery became more interesting as they crossed the hills between Poitiers and Angoulême. Bordeaux was passed about , and as darkness fell they were traversing the dreary, desolate, sandy wastes and pine forests of Les Landes.
They reached Irun just before , changing there into the broad-gauge carriages of Spain, and waiting for customs examination.
The moon rose as they passed through the rocky country north of Burgos, and it was daylight when they reached the latter town. Then on again through Valladolid to Medina, where the Madrid portion of the train branched off; through Salamanca of legendary fame, but now, for Spain, a considerable railway centre, then into Portugal, where the train hurtled along at considerably over thirty miles an hour. Finally, with brakes grinding, they descended the steep incline tunnelled beneath one of the seven hills on which Lisbon is built, and pulled up, twenty minutes late, in the Rocio Station.
When Tanner emerged into the brilliantly lighted streets and gazed down the splendid vista of the Avenida da Liberdade, he literally held his breath with amazement. The Portuguese he had always looked on as a lazy, good-for-nothing set, but this great new boulevard made him reconsider his opinion. He booked a room in the Avenida Palace Hotel, and then, crossing the Dom Pedro Square, walked down to the steamboat offices in the Rua da Alfandega.
The office was open—everyone seemed to be on the move all night—and one of the clerks spoke English. The steamer, it appeared, was due about . Tanner took the clerk into his confidence, and the latter made arrangements for the Inspector to get aboard with the first boat from the shore.
At Tanner was down on the Praça do Commercio, admiring in the brilliant sunlight the splendid river which flowed before him, and the charming setting of the town on its range of hills. In the river lay several steamers, some quite large, and all tugging at their anchors with their bows upstream. Down seawards, but inside the comparatively narrow mouth of the Tagus, a grey, two-funnelled boat was coming slowly up—the Vaal River—with, as Tanner hoped, William Douglas on board.
His friend the clerk arriving a moment later, the two men embarked on a motor launch. As the Vaal River’s anchor fell with a mighty splash, they sheered alongside and made fast.
When the port authorities had gone aboard, Tanner was allowed to follow. He went straight to the captain, who was still on the bridge, and showing him his card, explained his business.
“And so Mr. Walter Donnell’s wanted for murder,” the captain commented. “Guess he’s aboard all right. I thought he had something on his mind. See the chief steward and you’ll find him. What are you going to do with him?”
“Take him back to London.”
“Of course. But how?”
“I don’t know. What would you advise?”
The captain pointed to a single-funnelled steamer of about 4,000 tons lying not two hundred yards on their port quarter.
“That’s the Chrysostom, a Booth liner, due out in about an hour. If you take my advice you’ll get aboard and don’t favour the shore with your presence. I’ll run you over in the launch.”
Tanner thanked the man warmly.
“Guess that’s all right,” he answered dryly. “I’m as interested in getting him out of my ship as you are in taking him.”
Finding the chief steward, Tanner explained the matter in hand, adding that he wished to make the arrest as quietly as possible. The man seemed mildly interested and promised his
