I went with him.
A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a
huntsman's cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting
a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back.
His movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore
eye-glasses and appeared to be about five and forty years of age.
His hair as well as his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably
handsome. As he passed near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking
himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a glance towards us,
took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk at the same
nonchalant pace.
Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his
clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous
feelings by which he was being agitated.
"He has done well not to come in here to-day!" he hissed.
"Who is that man?" asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette.
"The Green Man," growled the innkeeper. "Don't you know him? Then
all the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.
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