“In one minute,” he said, and the liar withdrew.
Cipriani de Lloseta, with a quiet deliberation which was sometimes almost dramatic, stooped over the paper basket and recovered the crumpled slip of paper. He did not unfold it, but held it out, crushed up in his closed fist.
“Miss Eve Challoner,” he said.
John Craik nodded.
De Lloseta laughed and threw the paper into the fire.
“I must not be seen. Where do you propose to put me?”
“Go upstairs instead of down,” replied John Craik, as if he had been asked the same question before. “Wait on the next landing until you hear this door close; you may then escape in safety.”
“Thanks--good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
When Eve entered the room, John Craik was writing. He rose with a bow savouring of a politer age than ours, and held out his hand.