Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar.
A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the café when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him.
It was Ivan Renouf.
He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we returned to the café, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently, after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing’s, I asked him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service.
“What your wife told you was quite correct,” he answered, with a mysterious smile; “I was detected.”
“You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are keeping observation,” I remarked.
Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly, answered,—
“It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame’s service.”
“She left London almost immediately,” I said.
“Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her,” he observed, rather abruptly.