This could not be the man who, eight years ago, had sat for his portrait to the photographer in Paris; this could not be the man whom Hellier had followed on account of the likeness to that photograph.
This was an old, old man.
Had he aged then in the course of a few weeks? Had premature decay fallen upon him, turning him almost at a stroke from a man of forty or so to a man of seventy and more?
Was he himself mistaken?
No. This was indeed the face of the photograph, the face that had left its imprint on the retina of Leloir, the same face seen through the veil of age.
Yet if that were so, one would have to believe that this old man, who seemed scarcely strong enough to harm a child, had a few hours ago killed, with brutal ferocity, a fellow being.
As Freyberger sat examining the newcomer, he became aware that the newcomer was examining him.
The young lady behind the bar had relapsed into Tracked by a Stain, the shopboy with the butterfly net, the old gentleman sipping his absinthe were of no interest to her.
Freyberger yawned. He felt that he was being observed, and he fancied that he was being observed with approbation—the approbation with which a butcher observes a fat sheep.
If this were so, the situation was not without its humour. The humour of it did not, however, strike him. He was deficient in that sense.