"Herod Voltaire," I said. I went away then, and began to think. I found the man, and yet I had not. Nothing was certain yet. It was now Saturday, and he would not return until Monday night or Tuesday morning, and I must be in London by Wednesday at midnight, or all was lost. Say he came back on Tuesday by noon, there would then be only thirty-six hours left in which to get to London. Thirty-six hours, and many hundreds of dreary, weary miles between! Or if he should not come at all! If the Italian were deceiving me! I shall not try and relate what happened the next two days, except to say that I set Simon to watch every train that came into Turin station, while I did all I could to discover whether he were hiding in Turin. Neither of us saw Kaffar, nor did we hear anything of him. Monday night came. I had received no message from the lodging-house keeper, neither had I heard any news. The suspense was becoming terrible. Six o'clock! Seven o'clock, and no news! "Simon," I said, "go to that lodging-house and ask whether any message has been received." The willing fellow, still with a smile on his face and a cheery look, started to do my bidding. I do not know how I should have borne up during those two terrible days, but for my faithful friend. He had not been gone above half a minute before he came bounding back to my room. "A message jist 'a come, yer honour!" he cried. Eagerly I snatched it, and read--"_Expect me home to-night by the midnight train.--KAFFAR._" I caught up a time-table and anxiously scanned it. The telegram was from _Nice_. There was a train due from this fashionable seaport at 12.30. The lodging-house keeper had kept his word, and Kaffar would be safe. It was become intensely real, intensely exciting! Five hours to wait--five hours! Only those who have felt as I did can know what they meant. At twelve o'clock I sent Simon to the station, while I went to the lodging-house to await Kaffar's arrival. "Mr. Kaffar will have supper, I suppose?" I said to the proprietor of the house. "Yes, I shall prepare supper." "Where?" "In his own room." "Just so. Could you manage to put me in a room where I can see him at supper without being observed? I should like to enter quietly and give him a surprise." "You mean nothing wrong?" "On my honour, I do not." "It is said," mused the Italian, "that an English gentleman's honour is like English cloth; it can always be depended on. The adjoining room is empty, sir." "Thank you," I replied, while he led the way to the room. I had not been there long before I heard some one enter with the landlord. The two rooms, like many we find in French hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other. I had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see. The man with the landlord was Kaffar!