e. If these men were French detectives, or
French newspaper men of the anti-Dreyfusite party, who by shadowing me
hoped to discover M. Zola's retreat, it would be most unwise for me to go
to Wareham's. If once the latter's name and address should be ascertained
by detectives, communications between M. Zola and his friends would be
jeopardised. On the other hand, of course, I might be mistaken with
regard to the men; and before all else I ought to make sure whether they
really had any hostile intentions. So I resolved to leave the train at
Wimbledon, as I had originally proposed doing, and then shape my course
by theirs.

As soon as the train pulled up I rose to alight, and at that same moment
the Frenchman who had said 'We'll see,' exclaimed to his companion:
'Well, I think we will got out here.'

I waited to hear no more. I rushed off, threw my ticket to an inspector,
climbed the steps from the platform, descended another flight into the
station-yard, hurried into the Hill Road, and did not pause until I
reached the first turning on the right. This happened to be the Alexandra
Road, in which Wareham's local office is situated.

Then I turned round and, sure enough, I saw the two Frenchmen, the
licensed victualler and his son, deliberately coming towards me.
Forthwith, under cover of a passing vehicle, I crossed the street to the
corner of St. George's Road, which offered a convenient, shady retreat.
Then I awaited developments. To my great relief the party of four went
straight on up the Hill Road.

Nevertheless, this might only be a feint, and I hesitated about going to
Wareham's immediately. Before anything, I had better let those suspicious
Frenchmen get right away. So I retraced my steps towards the station, and
entered the saloon bar of the South-Western Hotel. There I found a
foreign gentleman, whether French or Italian I do not know, whom I had
previously met about Wimbledon on various occasions. A short, rather
stout, and elderly man, formerly, I believe, in business in London, and
now living on his income, he had more than once spoken to me of the
Dreyfus case, Zola, Esterhazy, and all the others. And on this particular
evening he approached me with a smile, and inquired if there were any
truth in the reports he had heard to the effect that M. Zola had lately
been seen in Wimbledon.

Nervous as I was at that moment, I was about to give him a sharp reply,
when the door of the saloon bar opened, and to my i