I re-entered the cab, but in the Boulevard St. Michel my driver unfortunately lost sight of them. They must, I think, have turned suddenly into one of the many side-streets and thus reached the Quai. For a few minutes I sat back in hesitation. Should I return at once to the hotel? or should I go boldly to that man whom I had so fortunately discovered and charge him with having had in his possession the stolen notes? If I adopted the latter course I saw that I should only raise an alarm, and the pair I was watching would undoubtedly get clean away. No, the old proverb that “murder will out” had once more asserted its truth. I had made a most amazing discovery, and now my love for Ernest as a man having been transformed to hatred of him as an assassin, I meant to weave a web slowly about them, and when complete I would give information to the police and thus avenge the poor boy’s death. Therefore I drove to the nearest telegraph office and wired to Genoa, urging both Ulrica and Gerald to come to Paris without delay, for I sorely needed the counsel of the woman who was my best friend and the man upon whose father rested the terribly strong suspicion. Then I returned to the Hotel Terminus, and, hearing no one in the sitting-room adjoining, lay down to rest, sleeping soundly, for with nerves unstrung, I was utterly worn out by fatigue and constant watchfulness. When I awoke it was past eight o’clock and quite dark. There was still no movement in the sitting-room adjoining, therefore I dressed and went across to dine at the Duval, at the corner of the Rue du Havre, preferring that cheap restaurant to the table d’hôte of the hotel, where I might possibly meet the three persons upon whom I was keeping observation. An hour later, just as I was crossing the road to re-enter the hotel, I saw a man standing alone on the steps in hesitation. He wore a dark beard, and had on a long drab overcoat such as men generally affect on race-courses, but notwithstanding the disguise I recognized that it was Ernest. The beard made him look much older, and by the addition of a few lines to his face he had entirely altered his appearance. For some moments he puffed pensively at his cigar, then, glancing at his watch, descended the steps and strolled slowly away, past the Café Terminus--which was once the object of a desperate attack by Anarchists--and continued along the Boulevard des Capucines, where he stopped before that popular rendezvous of Parisians, the Grand Café, and selecting one of the tables, the last one towards the Madelaine, placed against the wall of the Café, he ordered a coffee and liqueur. The night was bright, and the grand boulevards with their blazing globes of electricity were full of life and movement.