For a moment I stood still and looked after him; then, calling to Mueller that I should be back presently, I darted off in pursuit.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE KING OF DIAMONDS.

The rain beat in my face and almost blinded me, the wind hustled me; the gendarme at the corner of the street looked at me suspiciously; and still I followed, and still the tall stranger strode on ahead.  Up one street he led me and down another, across a market-place, through an arcade, past the Bourse, and into that labyrinth of small streets that lies behind the Italian Opera-house, and is bounded on the East by the Rue de Richelieu, and on the West by the Rue Louis le Grand.  Here he slackened his pace, and I found myself gaming upon him for the first time.  Presently he came to a dead stop, and as I continued to draw nearer, I saw him take out his watch and look at it by the light of a street-lamp.  This done, he began sauntering slowly backwards and forwards, as if waiting for some second person.

For a moment I also paused, hesitating.  What should I do?—­pass him under the lamp, and try to see his face?  Go boldly up to him, and invent some pretence to address him, or wait in this angle of deep shade, and see what would happen next?  I was deceived, of course—­deceived by a merely accidental resemblance.  Well, then, I should have had my run for my pains, and have taken cold, most likely, into the bargain.  At all events, I would speak to him.

Seeing me emerge from the darkness, and cross over towards the spot where he was standing, he drew aside with the air of a man upon his guard, and put his hand quickly into his breast.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” I began.

“What! my dear Damon!—­is it you?” he interrupted, and held out both hands.

I grasped them joyously.

“Dalrymple, is it you?”

“Myself, Damon—­faute de mieux.”

“And I have been running after you for the last two miles!  What brings you to Paris?  Why did you not let me know you were here?  How long have you been back?  Has anything gone wrong?  Are you well?”

“One question at a time, my Arcadian, for mercy’s sake!” said he.  “Which am I to answer?”

“The last.”

“Oh, I am well—­well enough.  But let us walk on a little farther while we talk.”

“Are you waiting for any one?” I asked, seeing him look round uneasily.

“Yes—­no—­that is, I expect to see some one come past here presently.  Step into this doorway, and I will tell you all about it.”

His manner was restless, and his hand, as it pressed mine, felt hot and feverish.

“I am sure you are not well,” I said, following him into the gloom of a deep, old-fashioned doorway.

“Am I not?  Well, I don’t know—­perhaps I am not.  My blood burns in my veins to-night like fire.  Nay, thou wilt learn nothing from my pulse, thou sucking AEsculapius!  Mine is a sickness not to be cured by drugs.  I must let blood for it.”