At the hour that evening when he had agreed to meet Edmond Laforce in front of the Café de la Paix, Frank was there, sitting at the same little table. To save his life, he could not tell why he had come there. Something had seemed to draw him, and he came alone.
Thus far, he had said nothing to his friends and companions about his meeting with Laforce, and the strange things that followed. In part, he had promised secrecy to the dead man, and he knew he could not tell a part without revealing the whole, unless he placed himself in an awkward position. He sat there, watching the flow of life around that table, and thinking of the Black Brothers, the blood-red star, and the mysterious metal ball which might hold the fate of Dreyfus, and which lay safely in his pocket. He wondered when any one would call for that ball, if ever. How could any one know it was in his possession?
As he was thinking of this, a man paused a moment squarely in front of the table, looked straight at Frank, and spoke two words:
“Justice calls!”
These words gave Frank a great start, for, despite all that had happened, they were most unexpected. But the sign that was to accompany the words was not given. The man did not cover his eyes with his hands.
Merry waited for this, and was about to speak, when the stranger added:
“Not here. Follow.”
Then he turned, and walked slowly away, not once looking back.
Frank hesitated. The signal had not been complete, nor had the man seemed to expect to receive anything there. It was plain he fully expected Frank would follow. Perhaps he had not wished to receive the metal ball there in that public place, and so he had given enough of the signal for Merry to understand, and follow him to a place more suited. Frank arose. As he did so, his hand slid round to his hip, where he felt a loaded revolver nestling in his pocket.
“It’s more than even chances I shall not need it,” he muttered; “but it is there, in case I do.”