It was
eight o'clock by my watch. I leaned back against the cushions,
ruminating. There seemed to be something going on that night; the ten
of hearts was acquiring a mystifying, not to say sinister, aspect.
First it had alarmed the girl in Mouquin's, and now this stranger in
the curio-shop. I was confident that the latter had lied in regard to
his explanations. The card _had_ startled him, but his reasons were
altogether of transparent thinness. A man never likes to confess that
he is unlucky at cards; there is a certain pride in lying about the
enormous stakes you have won and the wonderful draws you have made. I
frowned. It was not possible for me to figure out what his interest in
the card was. If he was a Westerner, his buying a pistol in a pawnshop
was at once disrobed of its mystery; but the inconsistent elegance of
his evening clothes doubled my suspicions. Bah! What was the use of
troubling myself with this stranger's affairs? He would never cross my
path again.
In reasonable time the cab drew up in front of my apartments. I
dressed, donned my Capuchin's robe and took a look at myself in the
pier-glass. Then I unwrapped the package and put on the mask. The
whole made a capital outfit, and I was vastly pleased with myself.
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