The man evidently knew the town well. He made no pauses, and did not hesitate at any time during his long walk. It terminated at a small, third-class hotel in the older part of the city, where he went in, entered the café, and selecting a table in a dim corner, ordered breakfast.
Duvall, feeling safe in leaving him, at once sought a telephone and proceeded to call up Dufrenne at the Hotel Metropole.
The latter, meanwhile, had turned from the railway station, and was proceeding up the street at a leisurely pace, when a young man approached him from behind, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Monsieur Dufrenne?" he inquired, smiling.
The curio dealer glanced at the man who had accosted him, and an answering smile lit up his face. "Oh, Lablanche, glad to see you," he said. "I did not know you were on this case."
"Monsieur Lefevre sent me from Paris last night. We are expecting news at any moment. Monsieur Duvall is with you, I observe."
"Yes. He is following the man from London. He will telephone me, as soon as he learns his destination."
The man whom Dufrenne had addressed as Lablanche, looked grave. "This affair has, we believe, been engineered by a physician here—Dr. Hartmann—you have heard of him, of course."
Dufrenne turned to his companion. "Hartmann—the man of the stolen war plans. Mon Dieu! Why did I not think of him before?" He seemed deeply chagrined. "Of course—of course—that explains everything."
"Where is Monsieur Duvall to communicate with you?" Dufrenne's companion asked. His voice held a note of brisk authority.
"At the Hotel Metropole. I shall take a room there at once."