I had
said to myself that I didn't wish to read the newspaper accounts of the
murder, and of Ivor's supposed part in it. I remembered now, however,
that I did not even know in what part of Paris the house of the murder
was. I recalled only the name of the street, because it was a curiously
grim one--like the tragedy that had been acted in it.
I couldn't tell the chaffeur to drive me to the street and house. That
would be a stupid thing to do. I must search the papers, and find out
from them something about the neighbourhood, for there would surely be
plenty of details of that sort. And I must do this without first going
back to the hotel, as it might be very difficult to get away again, once
I was there. Now, nobody knew where I was, and I was free to do as I
pleased, no matter what the consequences might be afterwards.
Passing a Duval restaurant, I suddenly ordered my motor-cab to stop.
Having paid, and sent it away, I went upstairs and asked for a cup of
chocolate at one of the little, deadly respectable-looking marble
tables. Also I asked to see an evening paper.
It was a shock to find Ivor's photograph, horribly reproduced, gazing at
me from the front page.
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