The secret agent followed him till he reached the Place des Palmiers.  He put a hand on Breitmann’s arm.  The latter, highly keyed, swung quickly.  And seeing who it was (the man he believed to be at that moment a prisoner in the middle country!), he made a sinister move toward his hip.  M. Ferraud was in peril, and he realized it.

“Wait a moment, Monsieur; there is no need of that.  I repeat, I wish you well, and this night I will prove it.  What? do you not know that I could have put my hand on you at any moment?  Attend.  Return with me to the little house in Rue St. Charles.”

Breitmann’s hand again stole toward his hip.

“You were listening?”

“Yes.  Be careful.  My death would not change anything.  I wish to disillusion you; I wish to prove to you how deeply you are the dupe of those men.  All your plans have been remarkable, but not one of them has remained unknown to me.  You clasp the hand of this duke who plays the sailor under the name of Picard, who hails you as a future emperor, and stabs you behind your back?  How?  Double-face that he is, have I not proof that he has written detail after detail of this conspiracy to the Quai d’Orsay, and that he has clung to you only to gain his share of what is yours? Zut!  Come back with me and let your own ears testify.  The fact that I am not in the mountains should convince you how strong I am.”

Breitmann hesitated, wondering whether he had best shoot this meddler then and there and cut for it, or follow him.

“I will go with you.  But I give you this warning:  if what I hear is not what you expect me to hear, I promise to put a bullet into your meddling head.”

“I agree to that,” replied the other.  He did not underestimate his danger; neither did he undervalue his intimate knowledge of human nature.

With what emotions Breitmann returned to the scene of his triumph, his self-appointed companion could only surmise.  He had determined to save this young fool in spite of his madness, and never had he failed to bring his enterprises to their fore-arranged end.  And there was sentiment between all this, sentiment he would not have been ashamed to avow.  Upon chance, then, fickle inconstant chance, depended the success of the seven years’ labor.  If by this time the wine had not loosened their tongues, or if they had disappeared!

But fortune favors the persistent no less than the brave.  The profligates were still at the table, and there were fresh bottles of wine.  They were laughing and talking.  In all, not more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since Breitmann’s departure.  M. Ferraud stationed him by the window and kept a hand lightly upon his arm, as one might place a finger on a pulse.

Of what were they talking?  Ostend.  The ballet-dancers.  The races in May.  The shooting at Monte Carlo.  Gaming-tables, empty purses.  And again ballet-dancers.