“If you come at twelve-thirty, monsieur, you will find that their job has been understood and perfectly carried out. Your birds will be trussed and waiting.”
“You're still certain that you are not suspected?”
“Who, I? But no, monsieur, but no! A temporary clerk who is open to reason will witness the signatures as well as myself. All goes well, allez!”
The men separated, one letting himself back into the flat and the other moving softly and slowly down the stairs.
Like a shadow Christine slipped after him. Near the house door she heard a click, and Mr. Beale switched on an electric torch for a second which gave her a glimpse of his face, before he swung open the door and shut it noiselessly behind him.
Another half-hour passed and she heard M. Beauregard's door again opened. This time it closed with a bang, and firm steps echoed down the stairs—no conspirator this apparently.
The minutes dragged by, till at exactly a quarter to twelve the front door was again unlocked, someone with an electric torch was coming up. A tall man, well muffled up, for the night was fresh. Christine slipped down to the door of the third floor flat, but keeping out of the ray of his steady light. The stranger come on, evidently making for the same goal. He got to the mat and extended his hands towards the little push button.
“Ne sonnez pas, monsieur, ne sonnez pas!” she murmured, touching his right arm.
“Hein?” He wheeled to face her, at the same moment the door was flung open and a clerk stood there bowing courteously.
“Come in, monsieur and madame. We did not expect a lady, but pray come in. I am M. Beauregard's head clerk.”