“This, I presume,” he remarked, “is not where you serve the eightpenny table d’hote?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
“But it would not be possible,” she answered. “We have no customers for that. If one arrives we put together a few scraps. But one must make a pretense. Monsieur understands?”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“I will take,” he said, “a small glass of fin champagne.”
She vanished, and reappeared almost immediately with the brandy in a quaintly cut liqueur glass. A glance at the clock as she passed seemed to have increased her anxiety.
“If monsieur will drink his liqueur and depart,” she prayed. “Indeed, it will be for the best.”
Mr. Sabin set down his glass. His steadfast gaze seemed to reduce Annette into a state of nervous panic.
“Annette,” he said, “they have placed me upon the list.”
“It is true, monsieur,” she answered. “Why do you come here?”