il spirit, it was
he; but he did not speak. He walked down the stairs without a word, and
then out into the street.

I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to
collect my scattered thoughts. On the whole, I was not pleased with the
interview. I had shown my hand. It would have been far better if I could
have allowed him still to think I was in his power, but the temptation
to show him my freedom was too strong. It would now be a trial of skill
between us. If he could have believed that I was unable to do anything
to free myself, I should have, perhaps, caught him unawares. Now he
would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every
move. If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping
him out of my way; if dead--well, then, I did not care much what
happened. If the latter, however, I determined to give up my life for
Miss Forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and
tell of the influence Voltaire had exerted over me.

Meanwhile I must act, and that quickly; so I went straight to a private
detective, a man I slightly knew. I refrained from going to Scotland
Yard, as I thought Voltaire would be watching me. I gave this detective
a description of Voltaire, told him his address, which I had ascertained
through his letters to Temple Hall, and explained my wishes to him. He
took up my points very quickly, saw what I wanted without any lengthened
explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me. So much pleased
was I with this interview, that I had no fear that my enemy would not be
well looked after.

After that I took train for Dover, and prepared to track Kaffar, if
possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task I had
proposed for myself.

I thought I made a forward step at Dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel
there, I found that a man answering to Kaffar's description had engaged
a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to Calais by the midday boat,
in time to catch the express for Paris.

"Did this gentleman have any luggage?" I asked.

The hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage,
but he would inquire.

On inquiry of the hotel porter, I found that he carried a Gladstone bag,
rather small and new. This was particularly remembered--first, because
the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second,
because there seemed to be nothing in it.

So far so good.

I determined