"Monsieur Boris," he said.
"Yes," said Hanaud with a nod. "And will you tell the ladies that we are ready?"
Boris Waberski, a long, round-shouldered man with bent knees and clumsy feet, dressed in black and holding a soft black felt hat in his hand, shambled quickly into the room and stopped dead at the sight of Hanaud. Hanaud bowed and Waberski returned the bow; and then the two men stood looking at one another—Hanaud all geniality and smiles, Waberski a rather grotesque figure of uneasiness like one of those many grim caricatures carved by the imagination of the Middle Ages on the columns of the churches of Dijon. He blinked in perplexity at the detective and with his long, tobacco-stained fingers tortured his grey moustache.
"Will you be seated?" said Hanaud politely. "I think that the ladies will not keep us waiting."
He pointed towards a chair in front of the writing-table but on his left hand and opposite to the door.
"I don't understand," said Waberski doubtfully. "I received a message. I understood that the Examining Magistrate had sent for me."
"I am his agent," said Hanaud. "I am——" and he stopped. "Yes?"
Boris Waberski stared.
"I said nothing."
"I beg your pardon. I am—Hanaud."