Should I dash back, overtake him and claim acquaintance? Or should I keep my knowledge to myself, and watch in patience?
A single second had I in which to decide. And I decided.
I turned back upon my heel again as though I had not recognized him.
But what could that man's presence mean in that little East Coast town? Aye, what indeed?
I tried to think, to conjecture, to form some theory—but I was too confused. Lola had been there—and now that man who had just passed!
Along the narrow, old-fashioned Jetty Street I strode for some yards, and then turned and retraced my steps till I saw him across the old churchyard entering the post-office.
Treeton was coming up in my direction, little dreaming how near he was to the one man who knew the truth. I smiled to myself at the ignorance of the local police. And yet my own knowledge was that of a man who had led a strange cosmopolitan life, who had mixed with all classes on the Continent, who had trodden the streets of more than one capital in disguise, and who had assisted the Sûreté in half a dozen countries.
I smiled at Treeton as he went by, and he smiled back. That man in the post-office yonder was a remarkable personage. That I well knew. What would any agent in the brigade mobile of Paris have given to be in my place at that moment—to be able to enter the Cromer post-office and lay hands upon Jules Jeanjean—the notorious Jules Jeanjean, of all men!
My thoughts were of Lola. Phew! Had ever man such a strange reverie as I had in those moments when I halted, pretending to look into the shop-window of the jeweller at the corner—yet all the time watching in the direction of the door of the post-office!
To go back would betray recognition, so I was compelled to go forward—to the hotel.