In a little underground bar in Leicester Square they sat at a table listening to a little string band worry through the overture to Lohengrin.
The crowded room suited their moods. Jimmy, in his preoccupation, found the noise, the babble of voices in many tongues, and the wail of the struggling orchestra, soothing after the exciting events of the past few hours. To Angel the human element in the crowd formed relaxation. The loud-speaking men with their flashy jewelry, the painted women with their automatic smiles, the sprinkling of keen-faced sharps he recognized, they formed part of the pageant of life—the life—as Angel saw it.
They sat sipping their wine until there came a man who, glancing carelessly round the room, made an imperceptible sign to Angel, and then, as if having satisfied himself that the man he was looking for was not present, left the room again.
Angel and his companion followed.
“Well?” asked Angel.
“Spedding goes to the safe to-night,” said the stranger.
“Good,” said Angel.
“The guard at the safe is permanently withdrawn by Spedding’s order.”
“That I know,” said Angel. “It was withdrawn the very night the ‘Borough Lot’ came. On whose behalf is Spedding acting?”
“On behalf of Connor, who I understand is one of the legatees.”