As soon as he had finished, he called a porter to his side.

“Vite!” he cried, in a tone of authority, to the man.  “Un fiacre!”

And the porter called one.

I started to find that I knew what he meant.  Till that moment, in my Second State, I had learned no French, and didn’t know I could speak any.  But I recognised the words quite well as soon as he uttered them.  My lost knowledge reasserted itself.

They bundled on my boxes.  The crowd still stood around and gaped at me, open-mouthed.  I got into the cab, more dead than alive.

“Allez!” my policeman cried to the French-Canadian driver, seating himself by my side.

“A la gare du chemin de fer Pacific!  Aussi vite que possible!”

I understood every word.  This was wonderful.  My memory was coming back again.

The man tore along the streets to the Pacific railway station.  By the time we reached it we had distanced the sightseers, though some of them gave chase.  My policeman got out.

“The train’s just going!” he said sharply.  “Don’t take a ticket for Palmyra, if you don’t want to be followed and tracked out all the way.  They’ll telegraph on your destination.  Book to Kingston instead, and then change at Sharbot Lake, and take a second ticket on from there to Palmyra.”

I listened, half dazed.  Palmyra was the place where Dr. Ivor lived.  Yet, even in the hurry of the moment, I wondered much to myself how the policeman knew I wanted to go to Palmyra.

There was no time to ask questions, however, or to deliberate on my plans.  I took my ticket as desired, in a turmoil of feelings, and jumped on to the train.  I trusted by this time I had eluded detection.  I ought to have come, I saw now, under a feigned name.  This horrid publicity was more than I could endure.  My policeman helped me in with his persistent politeness, and saw my boxes checked as far as Sharbot Lake for me.  Then he handed me the checks.

“Go in the Pullman,” he said quietly.  “It’s a long journey, you know:  four-and-twenty hours.  You’ve only just caught it.  But if you’d stopped in Quebec, you’d never have been able to give the sightseers the slip.  You’d have been pestered all through.  I think you’re safe now.  It was this or nothing.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, with heartfelt gratitude, leaning out of the window as the train was on the point of starting.  I pulled out my purse, and drew timidly forth a sovereign.  “I’ve only English money,” I said, hesitating, for I didn’t know whether he’d be offended or not at the offer of a tip—­he seemed such a perfect gentleman.  “But if that’s any use to you—­”

He smiled a broad smile and shook his head, much amused.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, half laughing, with a very curious air.  “I’m a policeman, as I told you.  But I don’t need tips.  I’m the Chief Constable of Quebec—­there’s my card; Major Tascherel,—­and I’m glad to be of use, I’m sure, to any friend of Dr. Ivor’s.”