M. Meunier entered briskly. For a second Christine hesitated. But what might be the effect of calling in the police? She stepped in, too. The door shut.
“This way”—and the clerk bowed them into a cheery office. “I go for the other witness.”
Christine had exhausted her stock of French. She whispered hurriedly in English.
“M. Meunier, I am Christine West. There is something wrong. That man has confederates and a Mr. Beale is in it, too. After the signing——”
He gave her a reassuring glance.
“We, too, are prepared. The password, mademoiselle?”
“Suneverup. And yours?”
“Piratekeep.”
The silly names from out her childhood seemed doubly incongruous just then, but as she looked him over, she guessed that M. Meunier would be a good man in a scrap. Tall, resolute, grey at the temples, and a bit red in the face, but with an eye like a boy's, and every short hair on his head bristling with vitality. Without a word he fastened his electric torch to the wall over by the door. She followed his example, hanging hers where he silently pointed beside a second door. She lit a candle which stood ready with matches and sealing wax on a desk in the middle of the room.
The head clerk entered, with a big stout German-looking man.