keeper's 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.
