Besides, a "shadow" would not, as a rule, appear on three
successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat.
And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see
gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side
of the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the
probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to
the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's
reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual
manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his
contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young
man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face,
disarmed resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an
interest in the show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way,
leaving the young man before the window. Larcher presently looked back;
the young man was still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he
was not taking further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of
Larcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself
followed.
The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not
been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door.
Florence rose and opened it.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby," said a very masculine, almost husky
voice in the hall; "these are the cigars I was speaking of to your
father.
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