He was a medium-sized man, rather stout, with a crimson face, and fiery-red whiskers.  His dress was that of a well-to-do merchant, and there was nothing in his manner or appearance to excite attention.

Fanferlot watched him eagerly.

“Well, my friend,” he said to himself, “in future I shall recognize you, no matter where we meet; and this very evening I will find out who you are.”

Despite his intent listening, he could not hear a word spoken by the stranger or Gypsy.  All he could do was to judge by their pantomime and countenances, what the subject of their conversation might be.

When the stout man bowed and spoke to her, the girl looked so surprised that it was evident she had never seen him before.  When he sat down by her, and said a few words, she jumped up with a frightened look, as if seeking to escape.  A single word and look made her resume her seat.  Then, as the stout man went on talking, Gypsy’s attitude betrayed great apprehension.  She positively refused to do something; then suddenly she seemed to consent, when he stated a good reason for her so doing.  At one moment she appeared ready to weep, and the next her pretty face was illumined by a bright smile.  Finally, she shook hands with him, as if she was confirming a promise.

“What can all that mean?” said Fanferlot to himself, as he sat in his dark corner, biting his nails.  “What an idiot I am to have stationed myself so far off!”

He was thinking how he could manage to approach nearer without arousing their suspicions, when the fat man arose, offered his arm to Mme. Gypsy, who accepted it without hesitation, and together they walked toward the door.

They were so engrossed with each other, that Fanferlot thought he could, without risk, follow them; and it was well he did; for the crowd was dense outside, and he would soon have lost them.

Reaching the door, he saw the stout man and Gypsy cross the pavement, approach a hackney-coach, and enter it.

“Very good,” muttered Fanferlot, “I’ve got them now.  There is no use of hurrying any more.”

While the coachman was gathering up his reins, Fanferlot prepared his legs; and, when the coach started, he followed in a brisk trot, determined upon following it to the end of the earth.

The cab went up the Boulevard Sebastopol.  It went pretty fast; but it was not for nothing that Fanferlot had won the name of “Squirrel.”  With his elbows glued to his sides, and holding his breath, he ran on.

By the time he had reached the Boulevard St. Denis, he began to get breathless, and stiff from a pain in his side.  The cabman abruptly turned into the Rue Faubourg St. Martin.

But Fanferlot, who, at eight years of age, had been familiar with every street in Paris, was not to be baffled:  he was a man of resources.  He seized the springs of the coach, raised himself up by the strength of his wrists, and hung on behind, with his legs resting on the axle-tree of the back wheels.  He was not quite comfortable, but then, he no longer ran the risk of being distanced.