with a nebulous notion, which by the time he woke up next morning had
taken shape as a fixed conviction, that he had better resign himself to
stop on indefinitely at the Grand Hôtel de l'Univers and ... see what
he should see.

That fatality on which he had so bitterly reflected when; acting as
emergency coachman en route from Montpellier-le-Vieux to La
Roque-Sainte-Marguerite, had him now fairly by the heels, as it were
his very shadow, something as tenacious, as inescapable. Or he had been
given every excuse for believing that such was the case.
Impossible--and the more so the longer he pondered it--to credit to
mere coincidence the innuendoes uttered at the château by Mr. Monk and
his party.

No: there had been malice in that, Duchemin was satisfied, if not some
darker purpose which perplexed the most patient scrutiny.

Now malice without incentive is unthinkable. But Duchemin searched his
memory in vain for anything he could have said or done to make anybody
desire to discredit him in the sight of the ladies of the Château de
Montalais. Still the attempt so to do had been unmistakable: the Lone
Wolf had been lugged into the conversation literally by his legendary
ears.

Surely, one would think, that nocturnal prowler of pre-War Paris had
been so long dead and buried even the most ghoulish gossip should
respect his poor remains and not disinter them merely to demonstrate
that the Past can never wholly die!

Had he, then, some enemy of old hidden under one of those sleek