"Then remember this: there is a place near London called Putney Heath."
"Putney Heath," repeated the other.
"There is a house called Bishopsholme."
"Bishopsholme," repeated the other.
"It is empty—to let, à louer, you understand. It is in a sad state of desolation. The garden, the house—you know the kind of place?"
"Perfectly, monsieur."
"At nine o'clock to-night and at nine o'clock to-morrow night you will be near the door. There is a large clump of bushes, behind which you will stand. You will stay there until ten. Between those hours M. White will approach and go into the house. You understand?"
"Perfectly, monsieur," said the voice again.
"You will shoot him so that he dies immediately."
"He is a dead man," said the other.