‘We’ll see,’ replied the other; and at the same time it seemed to me that he darted a very expressive glance in my direction.

I now began to feel rather nervous.  It was my own intention to alight at Wimbledon, as I had an important message from M. Zola to communicate to Wareham that evening.  But it now occurred to me that the best policy might be to go straight home.  If these men were French detectives, or French newspaper men of the anti-Dreyfusite party, who by shadowing me hoped to discover M. Zola’s retreat, it would be most unwise for me to go to Wareham’s.  If once the latter’s name and address should be ascertained by detectives, communications between M. Zola and his friends would be jeopardised.  On the other hand, of course, I might be mistaken with regard to the men; and before all else I ought to make sure whether they really had any hostile intentions.  So I resolved to leave the train at Wimbledon, as I had originally proposed doing, and then shape my course by theirs.

As soon as the train pulled up I rose to alight, and at that same moment the Frenchman who had said ‘We’ll see,’ exclaimed to his companion:  ‘Well, I think we will got out here.’

I waited to hear no more.  I rushed off, threw my ticket to an inspector, climbed the steps from the platform, descended another flight into the station-yard, hurried into the Hill Road, and did not pause until I reached the first turning on the right.  This happened to be the Alexandra Road, in which Wareham’s local office is situated.

Then I turned round and, sure enough, I saw the two Frenchmen, the licensed victualler and his son, deliberately coming towards me.  Forthwith, under cover of a passing vehicle, I crossed the street to the corner of St. George’s Road, which offered a convenient, shady retreat.  Then I awaited developments.  To my great relief the party of four went straight on up the Hill Road.

Nevertheless, this might only be a feint, and I hesitated about going to Wareham’s immediately.  Before anything, I had better let those suspicious Frenchmen get right away.  So I retraced my steps towards the station, and entered the saloon bar of the South-Western Hotel.  There I found a foreign gentleman, whether French or Italian I do not know, whom I had previously met about Wimbledon on various occasions.  A short, rather stout, and elderly man, formerly, I believe, in business in London, and now living on his income, he had more than once spoken to me of the Dreyfus case, Zola, Esterhazy, and all the others.  And on this particular evening he approached me with a smile, and inquired if there were any truth in the reports he had heard to the effect that M. Zola had lately been seen in Wimbledon.

Nervous as I was at that moment, I was about to give him a sharp reply, when the door of the saloon bar opened, and to my intense alarm in marched the two Frenchmen who had already inspired me with so much distrust.  Their friends were behind them; and I could only conclude that my movements had somehow been observed by them, and that now I was virtually caught, like a rat in a trap.