note from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to go
out, but would return at 2.30 P.M. As I stood reading this note, I espied
a couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a most
suspicious manner. Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock
hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost
brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his
buttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives,
and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's'
track.

To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola's note in
my pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberately
followed me, and in all likelihood I should have fled never to return if
a well-known figure in a white billycock and grey suit had not suddenly
advanced towards us from the direction of the staircase. In another
moment I had exchanged greetings with M. Zola, and my suspicious
scrutinisers had been introduced to me as friends. One of them was none
other than M. Fernand Desmoulin. They had arrived from Paris that
morning, and were about to sally forth with M. Zola in search of Mr.
Fletcher Moulton, Q.C., to whom they had brought a letter of introduction
from Maitre Labori.

Hence the note which M. Zola had already deposited for me at the hotel
office. Had I been a moment later I should have found them gone.

My arrival led to a change in the programme. It was resolved to begin
matters with lunch at the hotel itself, to postpone the quest for Mr.
Fletcher Moulton until the afternoon. I made, at the time, a note of our
menu. The 'bitter bread of exile' consisted on this occasion of an
omelet, fried soles, fillet of beef, and potatoes. To wash down this