I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to collect my scattered thoughts.  On the whole, I was not pleased with the interview.  I had shown my hand.  It would have been far better if I could have allowed him still to think I was in his power, but the temptation to show him my freedom was too strong.  It would now be a trial of skill between us.  If he could have believed that I was unable to do anything to free myself, I should have, perhaps, caught him unawares.  Now he would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every move.  If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping him out of my way; if dead—­well, then, I did not care much what happened.  If the latter, however, I determined to give up my life for Miss Forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and tell of the influence Voltaire had exerted over me.

Meanwhile I must act, and that quickly; so I went straight to a private detective, a man I slightly knew.  I refrained from going to Scotland Yard, as I thought Voltaire would be watching me.  I gave this detective a description of Voltaire, told him his address, which I had ascertained through his letters to Temple Hall, and explained my wishes to him.  He took up my points very quickly, saw what I wanted without any lengthened explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me.  So much pleased was I with this interview, that I had no fear that my enemy would not be well looked after.

After that I took train for Dover, and prepared to track Kaffar, if possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task I had proposed for myself.

I thought I made a forward step at Dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel there, I found that a man answering to Kaffar’s description had engaged a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to Calais by the midday boat, in time to catch the express for Paris.

“Did this gentleman have any luggage?” I asked.

The hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage, but he would inquire.

On inquiry of the hotel porter, I found that he carried a Gladstone bag, rather small and new.  This was particularly remembered—­first, because the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second, because there seemed to be nothing in it.

So far so good.

I determined to go on to Paris; it could do no harm, it might do good.  I could speak the French language fairly, and might, by some means, find out the steps he had taken.

Arrived at Paris, I was completely blocked.  He was not remembered in the Custom House; he was not remembered at some twenty hotels at which I called.

Again I began to think what he was likely to do.  I did not think he would possess very much money, and a man of his temperament would devise some means of getting some.  How?  Work would be a slow process, and not suited to his nature.  Kaffar would get money by gambling.  But that did not help me forward.  To search out all the gambling-houses in Paris would be a hopeless task; besides, would he gamble in Paris, a city of which he knew nothing?  I did not think so.  Where, then?