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Updated: May 3, 2025
He asked: "And how could he have left his father's house?" "In a trap, quite simply." "Who drove it?" "The father. This morning the sergeant and I saw the trap and spoke to the father, who was going to market as usual. The son was hidden under the tilt. He took the train at Pompignat and is in Paris by now." Renine's explanation, as promised, had taken hardly five minutes.
In answer to a question, the man said that M. Vignal had gone away that morning before anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap. "In that case," said Renine, when they had moved away, "all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels." "That will be no use," said the sergeant. "They have taken the railway." "At Pompignat station, where I came from?
"You would have found him there last night." "What became of him?" "He took the train at Pompignat." "That's a mere supposition." "No, a certainty." "A moral certainty, perhaps, but you'll admit there's not the slightest proof." The deputy did not wait for a reply.
And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits. "Three shots, sergeant.
He climbed on to the box of his trap an old cart with a patched tilt and cracked his whip: "Good-bye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won't stop me from going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I've a couple of calves under the tilt; and they're just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!" The others walked on.
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