“This was white.”
Black Humbert reflected. “There is, of course, a chance that he has already passed this on. But even if so, there will be others. The Countess comes often to the shop?”
“Once in a week, perhaps.”
“So.” The big man rose, and untied his soiled apron. “Go back,” he said, “and enter the restaurant. Order a small meal, that you may have finished when he does. Leave with him and suggest the Hungaria.”
“Hungaria! I have no money.”
“You will need no money. Now, mark this. At a certain corner you will be attacked and robbed. A mere form,” he added, as he saw Herman’s pallid face go whiter. “For the real envelope will be substituted another. In his breast-pocket, you said. Well, then suggest going to his room. He may,” added the concierge grimly, “require your assistance. Leave him at his lodging, but watch the house. It is important to know to whom he delivers these letters.”
As the man stood, he seemed to the cowering Herman to swell until he dominated the room. He took on authority. To Herman came suddenly the memory of a hidden room, and many men, and one, huge and towering, who held the others in the hollow of his hand. Herman turned to go, but at the door the concierge stopped him.
“A moment,” he said. “We will select first the shape and fashion of this envelope you saw. These matters require finesse.”
He disappeared, returning shortly with a wooden box, filled to the top with old envelopes. Each had been neatly opened and its contents extracted. And on each was neatly penned in a corner the name of the sender. Herman watched while the concierge dug through it.
“Here it is,” he said at last. “The Countess, to her aunt in a nunnery and relating to wool knitting. See, is this the sort of envelope?”