"I daresay," said the broker indulgently. "A sister of mine used to have 'em, or said she had; dreamt a tiger bit her, and, sure enough, next day she lost her brooch."
He sat at his desk, signed a receipt, counted some notes, and locked them in his drawer.
"You won't get your policies for a day or so," he said; "you're staying——"
"At the Hotel Belgique," said the client, and, pocketing his receipts, he rose.
"Good-day," said the broker, and opened the door.
With a slight bow, his client departed, and reached the street.
There was a taxi-cab drawn up before the door, and two or three gentlemen standing on the pavement before the office.
"Cab, sir?" said the driver, but the foreigner shook his head.
"I think you had better," said a voice in French, and a strong hand grasped his arm.
Before he realised what had happened, the Frenchman was hustled into the cab, two men jumped in with him, the door banged, and the car whirled westward.