ving been met by a little ferret-eyed Frenchman, named Jappe, who had
been one of Fremy's subordinates when he was in the French service.

Just before nine o'clock, after our _cafe-au-lait_ in the buffet, we
walked out upon the long arrival platform where the Orient Express from
its long journey from Constantinople was due.

It was a quarter of an hour late, but at length the luggage porters began
to assemble, and with bated breath I watched the train of dusty
sleeping-cars slowly draw into the terminus.

In a moment Fremy and his colleague were all eyes, while I stood near the
engine waiting the result of their quest.

But in five minutes the truth was plain. Fremy was in conversation with
one of the brown-uniformed conductors, who told him that the three
passengers we sought did join at Wels, but had left again at Munich on
the previous evening!

My heart sank. Our quest was in vain. They had again eluded us!

"I will go to Munich," Fremy said at once. "I may find trace of them
yet."

"And I will accompany you!" I exclaimed eagerly. "They must not escape
us."

But my plans were at once altered, and Fremy was compelled to leave for
Germany alone, for at the police office at the station half an hour
later I received a brief message from Edwards urging me to return to
London immediately, and stating that an important discovery had been
made.

So I drove across to the Gare du Nord, and left for London by the next
train.

What, I wondered, had been discovered?

CHAPTER XXVII.

EDWARDS BECOMES MORE PUZZLED.

At half-past seven on that same evening, Edwards, in response to a
telegram I sent him from Calais, called upon me in Albemarle Street.

He looked extremely grave when he entered my room. After Haines had taken
his hat and coat and we were alone, he said in a low voice:

"Mr. Royle, I have a rather painful communication to make to you. I much
regret it--but the truth must be faced."

"Well?" I asked, in quick apprehension; "what is it?"

"We have received from an anonymous correspondent--who turns out to be
the woman Petre, whom you know--a letter making the gravest accusations
against Miss Shand. She denounces her as the assassin of the girl Marie
Bracq."

"It's a lie! a foul, abominable lie!" I cried angrily. "I told you that
she would seek to condemn the woman I love."

"Yes, I recollect. But it is a clue which I am in duty bound to
investigate."

"You have not been to Miss Shand--y