Mine and Countermine
by C.H.
IT was on a raw November evening in 1869, that a spare, hook-nosed individual, bearing in his hand a small valise, entered a cafe-restaurant in the immediate vicinity of the Gare du Midi at Brussels. The atmosphere of the one long room which occupied the ground floor was strongly impregnated with tobacco, and the majority of the customers were either workmen in blouses, smoking clay pipes, or railway porters. At the farthest extremity of the salle, a few tables were scantily decked with coarse napkins, plates, and black-handled knives, the whole of the commonest order, and not peculiarly inviting in point of cleanliness. The stranger, lifting his hat as he passed the counter, made his way to the end of the room, and seated himself on a horsehair bench placed against the wall, and commanding a good view of the entire locality.
“I may as well dine here as anywhere else,” he said. “Perhaps something may turn up.”
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