The note, apparently in a woman’s handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial:
À l’aube du jour.
M.
Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw’s outside pocket.
“Thank you!” said he, with an amused smile.
“You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?” Crenshaw jeered.
“Someone else will do that,” Harleston replied.
“Someone else?” Crenshaw inflected.
“The police always search prisoners, I believe.”
“My God, you don’t intend to turn me over to the police?” Crenshaw exclaimed.
“Why not?” And when Crenshaw did not reply: “Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed—except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?”