Herman turned his pale eyes toward the giant. “So!” he said. And after a pause, “He has some influence among the veterans.”
“And is Royalist to his marrow,” sneered the concierge. He took the letter out again and, bringing a lamp, went over it carefully. It was signed merely “Olga.” “Blankets and loaves!” he fumed.
Now, as between the two, Black Humbert furnished evil and strength, but it was the pallid clerk who furnished the cunning. And now he made a suggestion.
“It is possible,” he said, “that he—upstairs—could help.”
“Adelbert? Are you mad?”
“The other. He knows codes. It was by means of one we caught him. I have heard that all these things have one basis, and a simple one.”
The concierge considered. Then he rose. “It is worth trying,” he observed.
He thrust the letter into his pocket, and the two conspirators went out into the gloomy hall. There, on a ledge, lay the white tapers, and one he lighted, shielding it from the draft in the hollow of his great hand. Then he led the way to the top of the house.
Here were three rooms. One, the best, was Herman Spier’s, a poor thing at that. Next to it was old Adelbert’s. As they passed the door they could hear him within, muttering to himself. At the extreme end of the narrow corridor, in a passage almost blocked by old furniture, was another room, a sort of attic, with a slanting roof.
Making sure that old Adelbert did not hear them, they went back to this door, which the concierge unlocked. Inside the room was dark. The taper showed little. As their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the outlines of the attic stood revealed, a junk-room, piled high with old trunks, and in one corner a bed.