Billy and Henri stared at the face showing in the pale gleam of a spar light. Clean-shaven, thin-lipped, hard-eyed, not a trace of the benevolent cast of countenance worn by the bland tradesman.
The line of talk was there, but not another line of the other assumed character.
“Is—it—really—Herr Roque?” stammered Billy.
“At your service, young sirs.”
“It all works like a play,” put in Henri.
“I hope not a tragedy, young sirs.”
“Would you mind cutting out the ‘young sirs’?”
Billy was getting nettled at this mockery.
“No offense intended, I assure you.”
For reasons of his own, the secret agent had no desire to blunt the edge of his selected tools in useless manner.