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158 market cart. The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight. I walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it. And I called for wine.

A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me. The inn was a large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration, although he wore a blouse. But I did not like the look of him, for he had shifty eyes and a bloated face. Without a word he brought me what I ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.

“Whose carriage is that under your shed?” I asked, sipping my wine.

“It is the carriage of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir,” he answered readily enough.

“The duke is here, then?”

“Have you business with him, sir?”

“I did but ask you a simple question,” said I. “Ah! what’s that? Who’s that?”

I had been looking out of the window, and my sudden exclamation was caused by this—that the door of a stable which faced me had opened very gently, and but just wide enough to allow a face to appear for an instant and then disappear. And it seemed to me that I knew the face, although the sight of it had been too short to make me sure.

“What did you see, sir?” asked the inn-keeper. (The name on his signboard was Jacques Bontet.)

I turned and faced him full.

“I saw someone look out of the stable,” said I.