“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche,
Avocat.”
“I can be found here at all hours,” said he, passing me and stepping inside the doorway. “But you will not need to seek me, Monsieur. I promise it, my friend shall call upon you without delay.”
The door closing behind him put an end to our “interview.”
For some seconds I stood in a kind of “quandary.” I could not doubt but that it was the same man whom we had met in the drinking saloon. The dress was different—of a more sober cut, though equally elegant—but this was nothing: it was a different hour, and that might account for the change of garments. The tout ensemble was the same—the features, complexion, colour of hair, curl and all.
And still I could not exactly identify the bearing of Monsieur Jacques Despard with that of Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche. The evil expression of eye which I had noticed formerly was not visible to-day; and certainly the behaviour of the young man on the present occasion, had been that of an innocent and insulted gentleman.
Was it possible I could have made a mistake, and had, in transatlantic phrase “waked up the wrong passenger?”
I began to feel misgivings. There was a simple means of satisfying myself—at least a probability of doing so. The Rue Dauphin could not be far off, and might soon be reached. If it should prove that Monsieur Despard lived at Number 9, the mystery would be at an end.
I turned on my heel, and proceeded in the direction of the Rue Dauphin.