Seeing him move, a loafer, crouching in the shadow of the station, slunk
reluctantly into the open and offered to procure him a _fiacre_; but the
boy's shake of the head was determined, and, crossing the road, he
turned to the left, gazing up with eager interest at the many hotels
that rub shoulders in that uninteresting region.

One after the other he reviewed and rejected them, moving onward with
the excitement that is born of absolute uncertainty. Onward he went,
without pause, until the pavement was intersected by a side-street, and
peering up through the misty light he read the legend, "rue de
Dunkerque."

Rue de Dunkerque! It conveyed nothing to his mind. But was he not
seeking the unknown? Again his head went up, again his shoulders
stiffened, and, smiling to himself at some secret thought, he swung
round the corner and plunged into the unexplored.

Half way down the rue de Dunkerque stands the Hôtel Railleux. It is a
tall and narrow house, somewhat dirty and entirely undistinguished;
there is nothing to recommend it save perhaps an air of privacy, a
certain insignificance that wedges it between the surrounding buildings
in a manner tempting to one anxious to avoid his fellows.

This quality it was that caught the boy's attention. He paused and
studied the Hôtel Railleux with an attention that he had denied to the
large and common hostelries that front the station. He looked at it long
and meditatively, then very slowly and thoughtfully he walked to the end
of the street. At the end of the street he turned, his mind made up,
and, hurrying back, went straight into the hall of the hotel as though
thirsting to pledge himself irrevocably to his decision.