He lifted the flap at the back of the cab, glanced through the little window, and groaned. Then he gave fresh directions to the cabman.
“Drive to the ‘Troc,’” he called, and to Jimmy he added, “If we must die, let us die full of good food.”
In the thronged grill-room of the brightly-lighted restaurant the two men found a table so placed that it commanded a view of the room. They took their seats, and whilst Jimmy ordered the dinner Angel watched the stream of people entering.
He saw a dapper little man, with swarthy face and coal-black eyes, eyebrows and mustache, come through the glass doors. He stood for a breathing space at the door, his bright eyes flashing from face to face. Then he caught Angel’s steady gaze, and his eyes rested a little longer on the pair. Then Angel beckoned him. He hesitated for a second, then walked slowly toward them.
Jimmy pulled a chair from the table, and again he hesitated as if in doubt; then slowly he seated himself, glancing from one to the other suspiciously.
“Monsieur Callvet—ne c’est pas?” asked Angel.
“That is my name,” the other answered in French.
“Permit me to introduce myself.”
“I know you,” said the little man shortly. “You are a detective.”
“It is my fortune,” said Angel, ignoring the bitterness in the man’s tone.