"Oh, no, M'sieur."
"You will want to see him, François. You may take the rest of the day off."
"Certainly, M'sieur," said François, recovering himself. His services were seldom dispensed with until later in the day. Possibly his employer had excellent reason.
Ronnie did not hear the bell ring and until he caught the click of the lock and the sound of voices in the lobby, he had no idea that he had a caller.
François came in alone, secretive, low-voiced.
"It is Mister East, M'sieur: Yesterday was the day, but m'sieur forgot," he said mysteriously.
"Yesterday was—what day?" Ronnie rubbed his chin with a knuckle. How stupid of him to forget!
"Ask him to come in please."
François hesitated, but went, returning with a thin young man whose face seemed all angles and bosses. He was well dressed, a little too well dressed. His plastered hair was parted and one fringe curled like a wave of black ink that had been petrified just as it was in the act of breaking on the yellow beach of his forehead.
He had a way of holding back his head so that he looked down his nose in whatever direction his gaze was turned.