Julien smiled. The young man never glanced towards their carriage as he passed, but mademoiselle, who was still a few steps behind, made a wry face at Kendricks.
"I believe she knew that he was going across," the latter declared.
"I wonder if he, too," Julien murmured, "has to call on Madame
Christophor?"
The whistle sounded. Kendricks put out his great hands.
"Good luck to you, Julien, old fellow!" he said. "Stand up to life like a man and look it in the face. I tell you I haven't been gassing to-night. I'd hate to pose as a moralist, but I do believe that misfortunes are often blessings in disguise. And I tell you I've a sort of faith in that little French girl. She gives one to think, as she herself remarked. Look up Madame Christophor. Don't be surprised to see me at any moment. I generally turn up in Paris every few weeks or so. Good luck to you!"
Julien leaned out of the window and waved his hand to Kendricks as the train moved slowly around the curve. The last face he saw upon the platform, however, was the face of mademoiselle.
CHAPTER VIII
IN PARIS
For exactly a month Julien disappeared. At the end of that time, looking very brown, a shade thinner, and possessed of a knowledge of the older towns of Normandy which would not have disgraced a guidebook, he arrived one cold, gray morning at the Gare du Nord. During all this time he had scarcely seen one familiar face. It was an unpleasant shock for him, as he waited for his baggage in the Customs House, to realize that he was being watched from behind a pile of trunks by the little man who had shown so much interest in him at the Café l'Athénée on the night he had left England. The sight somehow annoyed him. He crossed the room and accosted his late subordinate.
"What is your name?" he asked coldly. "You are in the Intelligence
Department, I believe?"