"Faith, I couldn't say. He changes so! He's tall, he's short, he's fat, he's thin ... dark and fair. I don't always recognize him."
Ganimard and Shears exchanged glances.
"It's he," muttered Ganimard. "It must be he."
For a moment, the old detective experienced a real agitation, which betrayed itself by a deep breath and a clenching of the fists.
Shears too, although more master of himself, felt something clutching at his heart.
"Look out!" said the concierge. "Here comes the young lady."
As he spoke, mademoiselle appeared in the gateway and crossed the square.
"And here is M. Bresson."
"M. Bresson? Which is he?"
"The gentleman with a parcel under his arm."