There was an American voice under his window:
“D'you think she's kiddin' us, Charley?”
Andrews was blinded, falling from a dizzy height. God, could things repeat themselves like that? Would everything be repeated? And he seemed to hear voices whisper in his ears: “One of you men teach him how to salute.”
He jumped to his feet and pulled open the drawer. It was empty. The woman had taken the revolver. “It's all planned, then. She knew,” he said aloud in a low voice.
He became suddenly calm.
A man in a boat was passing down the river. The boat was painted bright green; the man wore a curious jacket of a burnt-brown color, and held a fishing pole.
Andrews sat in his chair again. The boat was out of sight now, but there was the windmill turning, turning against the piled white clouds.
There were steps on the stairs.
Two swallows, twittering, curved past the window, very near, so that Andrews could make out the marking on their wings and the way they folded their legs against their pale-grey bellies. There was a knock.
“Come in,” said Andrews firmly.