ten
o'clock
The next morning , dressed in a shabby blouse , alpaca cap , and trousers frayed out round the ankles , I -- Hector Ratichon , the confidant of kings -- was lounging under the porte-cochere of No. 65 Rue des Pyramides . I was watching the movements of a man , similarly attired to myself , as he crossed and recrossed the courtyard to draw water from the well or to fetch wood from one of the sheds , and then disappeared up the main staircase . A casual , tactful inquiry of the concierge assured me that that man was indeed in the employ of Mr. Farewell . I waited as patiently and inconspicuously as I could , and at ten o'clock I saw that my man had obviously finished his work for the morning and had finally come down the stairs ready to go home . I followed him . I will not speak of the long halt in the cabaret du Chien Noir , where he spent an hour and a half in the company of his friends , playing dominoes and drinking eau-de-vie whilst I had perforce to cool my heels outside . Suffice it to say that I did follow him to his house just behind the fish-market , and that half an hour later , tired out but triumphant , having knocked at his door , I was admitted into the squalid room which he occupied .