So swiftly did the figure disappear from the doorway of the pâtisserie that I doubt whether the elegant woman there seated had been aware of his presence. She was sitting with her face half turned from the door, and, unless by means of the mirror, she could not possibly have witnessed his sudden hesitation and disappearance. That he intended entering there, and had been prevented by her presence, was manifest. He had no desire to be seen by her, that was quite evident.
Again it seemed as though Yolande’s mysterious correspondent was actually this man, whose presence in Paris had caused her so much anxiety.
A sudden impulse led me to go forth and keep watch upon his movements, and as I passed out I took note of the fine equipage, and saw that upon the harness was a duke’s coronet, beneath which was a cipher so intricate that I could not unravel it. The woman within was evidently some notability, but a foreigner; otherwise I should have recognised her, knowing as I did, by sight, all smart Paris. Her attitude, seated at that little table sipping her tea and lemon, was so calm that I felt assured she was not there for the purpose of meeting Yolande, but only for rest and a cup of that refreshing decoction so dear to the feminine palate. Nevertheless, I was puzzled to know who she was, and why her presence had had such a terrifying effect upon the man who had come and fled like a shadow.
I hurried along in the direction he had taken, down to the Place de la Concorde. Whether he had really detected my presence or not I was undecided. I believed and hoped not. I had had a paper before my face at the moment of his appearance, and it had seemed to me that when his eyes fell upon the lady sipping her tea, he did not pause to make further investigation. I was looking for him eagerly among the hurrying foot-passengers, when, just as I turned the corner by the grey wall of the Ministry of Marine, I saw his thin, tall figure cross the road and mount upon the impériale of one of the omnibuses going towards the Bastille. At the same moment a second omnibus passed, travelling in the same direction, down the Rue de Rivoli, and without hesitation I jumped upon it, and, also mounting the impériale, was thus able to follow him without much risk of detection. I kept my eyes upon his glossy silk hat some distance ahead as we travelled along the fine, broad thoroughfare, past the Continental, the Tuileries Gardens, the Louvre, and the quaint old Tour St. Jacques, until both vehicles pulled up at the corner of the wide Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, where he descended.
I quickly ran down the steps, and, sauntering along with affected carelessness, followed him across the Place and along to the Quai des Celestins, where he suddenly halted, glanced quickly around as though desiring to escape observation, and then entered an uninviting-looking door of one of those rickety dwellings which are among the most ancient and most unwholesome in Paris. The door he entered seemed to be the private entrance to a dingy little shop that sold fishing-tackle, wicker eel-traps, and such-like necessities for the angler. The manner in which he entered was distinctly suspicious, but I congratulated myself that, while he had not detected me, I had run him to earth.
He was a smart, rather foppish man of military appearance, though somewhat foreign-looking; thin-faced, black-haired, with a small, black, pointed beard, and a pair of cold grey eyes, sharp and penetrating; an erect, rather imposing, figure, which if once seen impressed itself upon one. Outwardly he bore the stamp of good breeding and superiority, and he now called himself Rodolphe Wolf. It was strange—very strange.
I noted the house he had entered, then, turning, walked slowly along the Rue St. Paul, and so regained the upper end of the Rue de Rivoli; and as I strolled along my thoughts were indeed complex ones. Sight of that man recalled a chapter of my life which I had hoped was sealed for ever. Of all men in the world he was the very last I should have dreamed of meeting. But as he had not detected me, for the present I possessed the advantage.
That thin, superior-looking man who had strolled so airily along the Quai, smart in his silk hat and pearl-grey gloves, and carrying his cane with such a jaunty air, was a man whose name had once been known throughout Europe—a man, indeed, of world-wide notoriety. In those days, however, he did not call himself Rodolphe Wolf. He had changed his name, it was true, but he could never succeed in changing his personality. Besides, the name he used had given me, who alone knew his secret, a clue to his identity. When Sibyl had mentioned the name and described him as a chance acquaintance at the Baronne’s, I felt convinced as to the truth. Yolande, too, seemed aware of his change of name, for so sudden had been my announcement that he was in Paris that she had been completely taken by surprise, and had made no attempt to declare herself ignorant of my meaning.
At the corner of the Caserne, in the Rue de Rivoli, I sprang into a fiacre, and told the man to drive to the Café de la Paix, where, seated upon one of the little wicker chairs in the warm sunset, I drank my mazagran and allowed my thoughts to run back to the time when this man had played so important a part in my life. All those strange circumstances came back to me as vividly as though they had happened but yesterday. He had once been my friend, but now he was my bitterest enemy.