“I ask, because I saw him ahead of me in Rue Albert just now. He dropped this case. Will you please give it him at”—she glanced at the clock. It was exactly five minutes to two o'clock—“at two o'clock precisely. I do not want him to thank me personally, so please wait till two.”
“As it strikes!” The waiter assured her heartily, “Madame can count on me.”
Christine saw that her watch and the clock were to the second together.
At exactly one minute past two she crossed the street and entered the door of No. 15, a door with many signs chiefly of insurance companies, and the men of the law in black and gold outside the handsome portals. She had noted how far into its open throat anyone on the opposite side could see. Just beyond this she flashed a glance backward. As she had hoped, Mr. Beale's head, with its fringe of reddish hair, was turned quite away from the window to the black-haired waiter standing beside him—her waiter.
She passed up the stairs in her silent galoshes. On the third floor was a sign: “Beauregard et Fils.”
She looked at the landing from above. There was only one large door on each floor. No one was about. It was the sacred hour of noon repose.
She tried the top floor. This, too, belonged to a business firm, but a trap door on to the roof gave her her chance. It was a very dirty roof, but it had a high coping all round, and there was a place where she could sit down. She fastened down the trap-door, and made herself as comfortable as possible, with a novel she had with her, under her umbrella. At seven o'clock she lifted the flap gingerly and listened. Feet clattered down the stone stairs below her. Bang, bang! went the house doors far in the depths. The clerks were leaving. At eight o'clock she carefully crawled to the top landing and bent over the banisters. All was silent. She crept below. From the third floor came the sound of a typewriter. It was very dark inside the building, and she decided to remain on the fourth floor landing, at any rate for the present.
A little before nine o'clock she heard a key inserted in the hall door and steps ascending—cautious steps. They stopped at M. Beauregard's and out of the darkness came a gentle tap. Only one. Christine dared not risk a glance over the banisters. She was back against the wall above, listening intently. The door opened and shut swiftly.
She heard a man's voice say in English with a foreign accent: “The old idiot's working late, but he'll soon be gone. Everything is ready.”
“The men understand their job, do they? Sure?” asked another voice with a distinct twang to it.