“No, not as yet. Perhaps Monsieur was the friend for whom she waited?” Westerham doubted that, and found the situation a trifle awkward to explain. “No,” he said to the fat Madame, he was not the friend whom Mademoiselle had come to meet. He was, however, an acquaintance, and would call later in the day. Contenting himself with this, he lifted his hat and strolled down the street, followed by the shrewd eyes of the landlady. He walked on until he felt sure he was no longer observed; then he walked back again. On the opposite side of the street to the République, a few doors up, he discovered a _café_ of humble aspect, provided with tables beneath an awning at which the thirsty could sit and refresh themselves. At one of these tables Westerham took a chair, and at the risk of violent indigestion called for more coffee. He sat and sipped the sweet and chicory-flavoured liquid and turned about in his mind the best means of discovering the reason of Lady Kathleen's visit to Rouen. He debated with himself whether it would not be better to go boldly over to the hotel and make his presence known; but he reflected that such a course might be unwise, more especially as Kathleen might still elect to remain silent on the mystery which still so much perplexed him. Indeed, his presence might result in her abandoning the business which had called her so suddenly from London. As time went on he glanced up and down the street, watching everyone's approach with interest. Westerham half expected to see the face of Melun. Instead, however, towards half-past eight his attention was aroused by the appearance of a man whose aspect was out of keeping with the little street. The stranger was above middle height, and bore himself with a certain air of quiet dignity. He was dressed in black, his clothes being well cut, though of obviously foreign tailoring. It was the man's face, however, which riveted Westerham's attention. It was very dark, and the nose was somewhat flat. Yet it was a face of great refinement and a distinction accentuated in a strange way by a long, black, and well-trimmed beard. The man was not a Frenchman, nor, Westerham decided, was he a German; certainly he was not an Italian nor an Austrian. A subtle something about the man's whole appearance, indeed, brought Westerham to the conclusion that he was a Russian. Yet why he fixed his nationality this way he could not tell, and then that intuition which was Westerham's great aid in times of trouble told him that this dignified and daintily-walking stranger was in some manner connected with Lady Kathleen's presence at the Hôtel de la République. So certain of this did he become that he took the precaution of drawing further back into the _café_, where he could sit in the shadows and watch the passage of the stranger without arousing any interest himself.