I had wired for a private cabin, thinking it would be well to be out of the way of my fellow-passengers during the crossing:  but the weather had been rough for a day or two (it was not yet the middle of April) and everything was already engaged; therefore I walked the deck most of the time, always conscious of the unusual thickness of my breast pocket.  The little man paced up and down, too, though his yellow face grew slowly green, and he would have been much better off below, lying on his back.  As for the two others, they also remained on deck, talking together as they leaned against the rail; but though I passed them now and again, I noticed that the little man invariably avoided them by turning before he reached their “pitch.”

At the Gare du Nord I regretted that I had not carried my own bag, because if I had it would have been examined on the boat, and all bother would have been over.  But rather than run any risks in the crowd thronging the douane, I decided to let the suitcase look after itself, and send down for it with the key from the hotel later.  Again the little man was close to my side as I went in search of a cab, for all his things had been gone through by the custom house officer in mid-channel, so that he too was free to depart without delay.  He even seemed to cling to me, somewhat wistfully, and I half thought he meant to speak, but he did not, save for a “good evening, sir,” as I separated myself from him at last.  He had stuck rather too close, elbow to elbow; but I had no fear for the letter-case, as he was on the wrong side to play any conjurer’s tricks with that.  The last I saw of the fellow, he was walking toward a cab, and looking uneasily over his shoulder at his two late travelling companions, who were getting into another vehicle near by.

I went straight to the Elysee Palace Hotel, where I had never stopped before—­a long drive from the Gare du Nord—­and claimed the rooms for which “Mr. George Sandford” had wired from London.  The suite engaged was a charming one, and the private salon almost worthy to receive the lovely lady I expected.  Nor did she keep me waiting.  I had had time only to give instructions about sending a man with a key to the station for my luggage, to say that a lady would call, to reach my rooms, and to draw the curtains over the windows, when a knock came at the salon door.  I was in the act of turning on the electric light when this happened, but to my surprise the room remained in darkness—­or rather, in a pink dusk lent by the colour of the curtains.

“The lady has arrived, Monsieur,” announced the servant.  “As Monsieur expected her, she has come up without waiting; but I regret that something has gone wrong with the electricity, all over the hotel.  It was but just now discovered, at time for turning on the lights, otherwise lamps and plenty of candles would have been provided, though no doubt the light will fonctionne properly in a few minutes.  If Monsieur permits, I will instantly bring him a lamp.”