XXVI. THE FLYING DEATH

XXVII. DAYBREAK



THE LONE WOLF



I

TROYON'S

It must have been Bourke who first said that even if you knew your way
about Paris you had to lose it in order to find it to Troyon's. But
then Bourke was proud to be Irish.

Troyon's occupied a corner in a jungle of side-streets, well withdrawn
from the bustle of the adjacent boulevards of St. Germain and St.
Michel, and in its day was a restaurant famous with a fame jealously
guarded by a select circle of patrons. Its cooking was the best in
Paris, its cellar second to none, its rates ridiculously reasonable;
yet Baedeker knew it not. And in the wisdom of the cognoscenti this
was well: it had been a pity to loose upon so excellent an
establishment the swarms of tourists that profaned every temple of
gastronomy on the Rive Droit.

The building was of three storeys, painted a dingy drab and trimmed