Apparently, nothing had yet been discovered.  Then he stopped, judging it useless to go farther.  Already he had passed too much time before Caffie’s door, and when one was of his build, above the medium height, with a physiognomy and appearance unlike others, one should avoid attracting attention.

For several minutes he walked up and down slowly, from the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs to the Rue du Hasard; from there he could see Caffie’s house, and yet be so far away that no one would suspect him of watching it.

But this promenade, which was quite natural, and which he would have continued for an hour in ordinary circumstances, without thinking anything about it, soon alarmed him.  It seemed as if people looked at him, and two persons stopping to talk made him wonder if they spoke of him.  Why did they not continue their way?  Why, from time to time, did they turn their heads toward him?

He left the place, and neither wishing nor being able to decide to go far away from “the house,” he concluded to go to a small cafe which was close by.

On entering, he seated himself at a table near the door that appeared to be an excellent observatory, from where he could easily survey the street.  A waiter asked him what he would have, and he ordered coffee.

He gave this order mechanically, without thinking what he was saying, and not till afterward did he wonder if it were natural to take coffee at this hour.  The men seated at the other tables drank appetizers or beer.  Had he not made a blunder?

But everything seemed a blunder, as everything seemed dangerous.  Could he not regain his composure and his reason?  He drank his coffee slowly; then he asked for a newspaper.  The street was quiet, and people left the cafe one by one.

Behind his newspaper he reflected.  It was his feverish curiosity that made him admit that Caffie’s death would be discovered during the evening.  In reality, it might easily remain undiscovered until the next day.

But he could not stay in the cafe until the next day, nor even until midnight.  Perhaps he had remained there too long already.

He did not wish to go yet, so he ordered writing materials, and paid the waiter, in case he might wish to go hastily—­if anything occurred.

What should he write?  He wished to test himself, and found that he was able to write clearly, and to select the proper words; but when he came to read it over, his will failed him.

Time passed.  Suddenly there was a movement under the porte-cochere of “the house,” and a man ran through the street.  Two or three persons stopped in a group.

Without hurrying too much, Saniel went out, and in a strong voice asked what had happened.

“An agent of business has been assassinated in his office.  Word has been sent to the police bureau in the Rue du Hasard.”

CHAPTER XIV