At the name Dangle, M. Marquet had nodded, and when he saw the photograph he beamed and his whole body became affirmation personified. But certainly, he knew M. Dangle. For several weeks—he could not say how many, but he could ascertain from his records—for several weeks M. Dangle had been his guest at intervals. Sometimes he had stayed one night, sometimes two, sometimes three. Yes, he was usually alone, but not always. On three or four occasions he had been accompanied by another gentleman—a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man, and once a third man had come, a short man with a fair mustache. Yes, that was the photograph of the short man, M.—? Yes; Blessington. The other man’s name he could not remember, but it would appear in the register: Sile, Site—something like that. Yes, Sime: that was it. No, he was afraid he knew nothing about these gentlemen or their business, but he would be glad to do everything in his power to assist monsieur.
French, his enthusiasm and delight remaining at fever heat, was suitably grateful. He wished just to ask M. Marquet a few more questions. He would like to know the last occasion on which M. Dangle had stayed.
“Why,” M. Marquet exclaimed, “he just left yesterday. He came here, let me see, on Tuesday night quite late, indeed it was when he arrived. He came, he said, off the English boat train which arrives here about . He stayed here two days—till yesterday, Thursday. He left yesterday shortly after déjeuner.”
“He was alone?”
“Yes, monsieur. This time he was alone.”
French, metaphorically speaking, hugged himself on hearing this news. Through his brilliant work with the torn bill, he had added one more fine achievement to the long list of his successes. He could not but believe that the most doubtful and difficult step of the investigation had now been accomplished. With a trail only twenty four hours old, he should surely be able to put his hands on Dangle with but little delay. Moreover, from the fact that so many visits had been paid to Antwerp it looked as if the secret of the gang was hidden in the city. Greatly reassured, he proceeded to acquire details.
He began by obtaining from M. Marquet’s records lists of the visits of the three men, and that gentleman’s identification of the torn bill. Also he pressed him as to whether he could not remember any questions or conversations of the trio which might give him a hint as to their business, but without success. He saw and made a detailed search of the room Dangle had occupied during his last visit, but here again with no result. Dangle, M. Marquet said, had been out all day on the Wednesday, the day after his arrival, but on Thursday he had remained in the hotel until his departure about M. Marquet had not seen him leave, but he had sent the waiter for his bill after déjeuner, and the proprietor believed he had gone a little later. Possibly the porter could give more information on the point.
The porter was sent for and questioned. He knew M. Dangle well and recognized his photograph. He had been present in the hall when the gentleman left on the previous day, shortly before . M. Dangle had walked out of the hotel with his suitcase in his hand, declining the porter’s offer to carry it for him or call a taxi. The trams, however, passed the door, and the porter had assumed M. Dangle intended to travel by that means. No, he had not noticed the direction he took. There was a “stillstand” or tramway halt close by. Dangle had not talked to the porter further than to wish him good day when he met him. He had not asked questions, or given any hint of his business in the town.
Following his usual procedure under such circumstances, French next asked for interviews with all those of the staff who had come in any way in contract with his quarry, but in spite of his most persistent efforts he could not extract a single item of information as to the man’s business or movements.
Baffled and weary from his journey, French took his hat and went out in the hope that a walk through the streets of the fine old city would clear his brain and bring him the inspiration he needed. Crossing beneath the trees of the Place Verte, he passed round the cathedral to the small square from which he could look up at the huge bulk of the west front, with its two unequal towers, one a climbing marvel of decoration, “lace in stone,” the other unfinished, and topped with a small and evidently temporary spire. Then, promising himself a look round the interior before leaving the town, he regained the tramline from the Place Verte, and following it westwards, in two or three minutes came out on the great terraces lining the banks of the river.
The first sight of the Scheldt was one which French felt he would not soon forget. Well on to half a mile wide, it bore away in both directions like a great highway leading from this little Belgium to the uttermost parts of the earth. Large ships lay at anchor in it, as well as clustering along the wharves to the south. This river frontage of wharves and sheds and cranes and great steamers extended as far as the eye could reach; he had read that it was three and a half miles long. And that excluded the huge docks for which the town was famous. As he strolled along he became profoundly impressed, not only with the size of the place, but more particularly with the attention which had been given to its artistic side. In spite of all this commercial activity the city did not look
