en eggs and a piece of beefsteak. The
commission was quickly executed by a strongly-built young woman with
beautiful blonde hair and large, handsome eyes, who regarded us with
curiosity.

The innkeeper said to her roughly:

"Get out!--and if the Green Man comes, don't let me see him."

She disappeared. Rouletabille took the eggs, which had been brought to
him in a bowl, and the meat which was on a dish, placed all carefully
beside him in the chimney, unhooked a frying-pan and a gridiron, and
began to beat up our omelette before proceeding to grill our beefsteak.
He then ordered two bottles of cider, and seemed to take as little
notice of our host as our host did of him. The landlord let us do our
own cooking and set our table near one of the windows.

Suddenly I heard him mutter:

"Ah!--there he is."

His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued
himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need for
me to draw Rouletabille's attention; he had already left our omelette
and had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him.

A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a
huntsman's cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting
a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back. His
movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore eye-glasses and
appeared to be about five and forty years of age. His hair as well as
his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably handsome. As he passed
near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking himself whether or no he should
enter it; gave a glance towards us, took a few whiffs at his pipe, and
then resumed his walk at the same nonchalant pace.

Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched
hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which
he was being agitated.

"He has done well not to come in here to-day!" he hissed.

"Who is that man?" asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette.

"The Green Man," growled the innkeeper. "Don't you know him? Then all
the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.--Well, he is
Monsieur Stangerson's forest-keeper."

"You don't appear to like him very much?" asked the reporter, pouring
his omelette into the frying-pan.

"Nobody likes him, monsieur. He's an upstart who must once have had a
fortune of his own; and he forgives nobody because, in order to live, he
has been compelled to become a ser