That strange glance he had exchanged with the passer-by beneath the rays of the street-lamp had been mysterious and significant.  If the passer-by had been a crook, like himself, the sign of recognition would be one of salutation.  But the expression upon his alleged friend’s face was one of triumph.  That made all the difference, and to Hugh, with his observation quickened as it had been in those months of living with daily dread of arrest, it had caused him to be seized with strong and distinct suspicions.

He felt in his hip pocket and found that his revolver, an American Smith-Wesson, was there.  He had a dislike of automatic pistols, as he had once had a very narrow escape.  He had been teaching a girl to shoot with a revolver, when, believing that she had discharged the whole magazine, he was examining the weapon and pulled the trigger, narrowly escaping shooting her dead.

For a few seconds he stood upon the broad pavement.  Then he drew out his cigarette-case.  In it were four cigarettes, two of which The Sparrow had given him when in London.

“Yes,” he muttered to himself.  “Somebody must have given me away at Shapley, and now they have followed me!  I will act for myself, and take the risks.”

Then he walked boldly on, crossed the road, and entered the big Hotel de Louvre et Paix.  To appear unconcerned he had a drink at the bar, and ascending in the lift, called the floor-waiter, asked for his bill, and packed his bag.

“Ah!” he said to himself.  “If I could only get to know where The Sparrow is and ask him the truth!  He may be at that address in Paris which he gave me.”

After a little delay the bill was brought and he paid it.  Then in a taxi he drove to the station where he deposited his bag in the cloak-room.

Close by the consigne a woman was standing.  He glanced at her, when, to his surprise, he saw that she was the same woman who had been sitting in the cafe with a male companion.

Was she, he wondered, in league with his so-called friend?  And if so, what was intended.

Sight of that woman lounging there, however, decided him.  She was, no doubt, awaiting his coming.

He walked out of the great railway terminus, and, inquiring the way to the Rue Beauvau, soon found the garage where a powerful open car was awaiting him in the roadway outside.

A smart driver in a dark overcoat came forward, and apparently recognizing Hugh from a description that had been given to him, touched his cap, and asked in French: 

“Where does m’sieur wish to go?”

“To the station to fetch my coat and bag,” replied the young Englishman, peering into the driver’s face.  He was a clean-shaven man of about forty, broad-shouldered and stalwart.  Was it possible that the car had been hired by the police, and the driver was himself a police agent?

“Very well, m’sieur,” the man answered politely.  And Hugh having entered, he drove up the Boulevard de la Liberte to the Gare St. Charles.