About seven o'clock I myself dressed and went forth, strolling idly along until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, in front of the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly sharks on the watch for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these polyglot swindlers can easily fix upon persons who change cheques as likely victims, and track them down. Suddenly it occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table before the "Grand Café." This I did, but found only the remains of some cipher which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day, for the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint pencil-marks remained.
As I sat there, I chanced to glance across the road, and to my surprise saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the kerb. He was evidently keeping that table under observation. While pretending not to see him, I drank my coffee, paid, rose from my seat, and walked away; but as the watcher at once followed me, I returned to the hotel.
It is not pleasant for a woman to be followed by a strange man, especially if she is bent upon making secret inquiries, or is watching another person, so when I had again returned to my room I presently bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel—the one which leads straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare. By means of this door I managed to escape the little man's vigilance, and entering a cab, drove down to the Pont des Arts. As I had nothing particular to do, it occurred to me that if I could find the little coiffeur's, where I had seen the man with whom I had danced on the night of the Carnival ball, I might watch, and perhaps learn something. That this man was on friendly terms with both Keppel and Cameron had been proved by that scrap of confidential conversation I had chanced to overhear.
The difficulty I experienced in recognising the narrow and crooked street was considerable, but after nearly an hour's search through the smaller thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel, my patience was rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the opposite side. The place was in darkness, apparently closed. Scarcely had I passed, however, when someone emerged from the place. It was, I felt quite sure, the man who had worn the owl's dress. He was dressed rather elegantly, and seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, no one meeting him in the street would have believed him to be a barber.
Almost involuntarily, I followed him. He lit a cigarette, and then walked forward at a rapid pace down the Boulevard, across the Pont Neuf, and turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering maze to me, he suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large house, and made some inquiry of the concierge.
"Madame Fournereau?" I heard the old man answer gruffly. "Yes. Second floor, on the left."
And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes went forward, and up the stairs.
Madame Fournereau! I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that name before.
I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there until the man emerged again, when, as I lifted my eyes, I happened to see the name-plate at the street corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, "tabac" occurred to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last discovered her name and her abode.
I think at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during the past month or so, that I believe my actions were characterised by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think I was in my right senses that night, or I should not have dared to act alone and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad's death, and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs, was strong upon me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments. "Amor dà per mercede, gelosia e rotta fede."