"You know who she is?" he asked.
"Hirsch's wife," I answered, nodding.
"You had better be careful," he said slowly. "Hirsch is not a safe man to play tricks with."
I told Guest what had passed. He agreed with me that it was an embarrassing position, but he was insistent that I should go.
"One cannot tell," he remarked. "Even the cleverest women have their interludes. I rather fancy, though, that this time the lady has something more in her mind."
At four o'clock I presented myself at the door of an entry at the address which had been given me. An untidy-looking girl pointed out to me some stairs, over which was a hand pointing downwards, and a notice—
"MAX SONNEBERG'S RIFLE RANGE."
I descended the stairs, and found myself in a sort of cellar with two tubelike arrangements, down one of which a young man was shooting. Mr. Sonneberg rose slowly from a chair and came towards me.
"Paul Schmidt, is it not?" he asked.
I nodded.