little tables. And here again M. Zola, in his light garments, with the
rosette of the Legion of Honour showing brightly in his buttonhole,
became the observed of all observers.

He was, indeed, so conspicuous, so characteristic a figure that, looking
backward and remembering how repeatedly the illustrated papers had
portrayed him and how many photographs of him were to be seen in shop
windows, I often wonder how it happened that he was not recognised a
hundred times during those few days spent in London. It may be that many
did recognise him, but held their tongues. As yet, certainly, there was
not a word in the newspapers to set his adversaries upon his track.

It was in a corner of the smoking-room at the Grosvenor, a hot gloomy
apartment overlooking Victoria Station, that I introduced Wareham to the
novelist. The former had already formed some opinion, but a few points
remained for consideration. The chief of these, as Wareham explained, was
how far the French Republic might claim jurisdiction over Frenchmen.

In matters of process some countries asserted a measure of authority over
their subjects wherever they might be; and the question was, what might
be the law of France in that respect? Of course M. Zola could not be
extradited. The offence for which he had been sentenced did not come
within the purview of the Extradition Act. Again (in reply to a query
from M. Zola), there was no diplomatic channel through which a French
criminal libel judgment could be signified in England. But suppose that
French detectives should discover M. Zola's whereabouts, and suppose a
French process-server should quietly come to England with a couple of
witnesses, and by some craft or good luck should succeed in placing a
copy of the Versailles judgment in M. Zola's hands?