Patricia answered the ring.
"Hullo, sweetheart," he said. His voice was level, too certain of its words to show excitement. "Yes… No trouble at all. Everything went according to plan, and we're all sitting pretty — except the deputation from the ungodly. Now listen. I've got a job for you. Call Orace and tell him to expect you. Then get out the Daimler, and tell Sam Outrell to pull Stunt Number Three. As soon as you're sure yon aren't followed, come over here. Hustle it… No, I'll tell you when you arrive. There are listeners… Okay, darling. Be seein' ya."
He put down the phone and turned to Bravache. The pupils of his eyes were like chips of flint.
"So you were going to kill Lady Valerie and blame it on to me," he said with great gentleness. "That was as far as we'd got, wasn't it? The Sons of France avenge the murder of one of their sympathizers, and all sorts of high-minded nitwits wave banners. Do you see any good reason why you shouldn't take some of your own medicine?"
"You daren't do it!" said Bravache whitely. "The Sons of France will make you pay for my death a hundred times!"
Dumaire's face was yellow with fear. Simon took him by the scruff of the neck and heaved him over to the window. He parted the curtains and pointed downwards.
"I suppose you came here in a car," he said. "Which of those cars is yours?"
The man shook like a leaf but did not answer.
Simon turned him round and hit him in the face. He held him by the lapels of his coat and brought him back to the window.
"Which of those cars is yours?"