Fay let the match singe his gloves as he eyed this package. It could be no other than the one left by the agent who had fled to Holland and there met with a sudden death.
He reached and brought down this packet, held the last glow of the match to its top and read the name scrawled there:
“Otto Mononsonburg.�
He dropped the charred stick and wheeled. Already the front door of the embassy was giving. The way seemed blocked. He took his time, however. He pocketed the stethoscope, crammed the packet into his left-hand coat’s slit and closed his hand over the butt of the automatic as he glided out and into the room.
Faces appeared at the windows. They seemed like pumpkins on racks. The door opened slightly. A long-barreled rifle was thrust through. Fay stepped to one side and toward the stairway which led to the basement.
He paused then and glanced for a last time at the windows, turned toward the front door, then sauntered over to the basement steps and went down.
The trussed guard had raised himself to a sitting position. The bandage was still across his mouth. Each end of the stick stuck out like a quill. Fay took care to avoid him, stepped to the window, threw the catch and lifted the sash. He glanced out.
The garden was deserted. The sounds which came from the front of the embassy had not yet reached the side alley. There were any number of these sounds. They reminded Fay of an aroused bee-hive.
He passed through the window, pressed down the sash gently, removed his gloves, and stood erect. The glueyness of the fog prevented any view of the clock in the tower of the Hôtel de Ville. It also shrouded his movements.
He sprang over a garden bed, grasped the coping of the stone wall and vaulted the obstruction with a half effort. He landed in a crouching position on the alley pave.