For some seconds I stood in a kind of "quandary." I could not doubt but
that it was the same man whom we had met in the drinking saloon. The
dress was different--of a more sober cut, though equally elegant--but
this was nothing: it was a different hour, and that might account for
the change of garments. The _tout ensemble_ was the same--the features,
complexion, colour of hair, curl and all.
And still I could not exactly identify the bearing of Monsieur Jacques
Despard with that of Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche. The evil expression
of eye which I had noticed formerly was not visible to-day; and
certainly the behaviour of the young man on the present occasion, had
been that of an innocent and insulted gentleman.
Was it possible I could have made a mistake, and had, in transatlantic
phrase "waked up the wrong passenger?"
I began to feel misgivings. There was a simple means of satisfying
myself--at least a probability of doing so. The Rue Dauphin could not
be far off, and might soon be reached. If it should prove that Monsieur
Despard lived at Number 9, the mystery would be at an end.