About seven o’clock I myself dressed and went forth, wandering idly down until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, before the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly sharks on the look-out for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these polyglot swindlers easily fix upon 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 curb. He was evidently keeping observation upon that table. In pretence of not seeing him, I drank down my coffee, paid, and rising walked away. But he at once followed me, therefore I returned to the hotel. It is not pleasant to a woman to be followed by a strange man, especially if one is bent upon making secret inquiries or 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 this door I managed to escape the little man’s vigilance, and entering a cab drove down to the Pont des Arts. I had nothing particular to do, therefore it occurred to me that if I could find that 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 already overheard. The difficulty I experienced in recognizing the narrow, 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 some one emerged from the place, and turning I saw it was the man who had worn the owl’s dress. He was attired smartly, and seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, none meeting him in the street would believe 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, 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.