I was at the Hotel de Luynes--or Granger--early on the following morning.

The mists were still hanging about the dismal upper windows of the inscrutable Faubourg; the toilet of the city was being completed; the little hoses on wheels were clattering about the quiet larger streets.

I had not much courage thus early in the day.

I had started impulsively; stepping with the impulse of immediate action from the doorstep of the dairy where I had breakfasted.

But I made detours; it was too early, and my pace slackened into a saunter as I passed the row of porters' lodges in that dead, inscrutable street.