"So you, like me, have done nothing?"
"Ah, I note the bitterness of defeat in your tone. It has warped your judgment, too, as you will agree when a certain dinner I have arranged for tomorrow night touches the spot."
"Can't you put matters more plainly?"
"I'm guessing and planning and contriving. Like Galileo, I am convinced that the world moves." Then Furneaux broke into French. "Regarding those addresses you speak of, what are they?"
Using the same language, Winter told him, substituting "the Eurasian" and "the motorcyclist" for names, and adding that he was writing Jacques Faure, the Paris detective, with reference to the hotel and the label, the figures on the latter being of the long, thin, French variety.
"Are you coming here tonight?" went on Furneaux.
"Do you want me?"
"I'm only a little chap, and I'd like to have you near when it is dark."
Winter sighed, but it was with relief. He knew now that Furneaux had not failed.
"Very well," he said. "I'll arrive by the next convenient train."