The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the back of his hand, making a sharp, grating sound.
“That old man,” he said, “is getting past his work. He is losing nerve; and nerve is a thing that we cannot afford to lose.”
Then he turned to the letter again.
“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly; “St. Mary Western. He is there—how very strange. What a singular coincidence!”
He fell into a reverie with the letter before him.
“Carew is dead—but still I can manage it. Perhaps it is just as well that he is dead. I was always afraid of Carew.”
Then he wrote a letter, which he addressed to “Signor Bruno, care of Mrs. Potter, St. Mary Western, Dorset.”
“I shall come,” he wrote, “but not in the way you suggest. I have a better plan. You must not know me when we meet.”
He purchased a twenty-five centime stamp from Mr. Jacquetot, and posted the letter with his own hand in the little wall-box at the corner of the Rue St. Gingolphe.