"In the Calle de Pescadores out at Barcelonetta. Sobrenski sent me with a message to you. The place is being watched. If they see you go in you may be arrested. The others got to hear about the spies, and went early. They are going to stay there all night because it isn't safe to leave." Her tone was that of one who repeats a well-learned lesson.
Emile shrugged. "Spies? So that's it! There was a man just now in the café who looked like it. Probably he is waiting to go outside now to 'shadow' me. He may wait till—! And how did you get out?"
"They let me down from a window at the back of the house. I got on to the quay and came here by the long way and through the Rambla." There was a pause, and then she said in the same mechanical voice, "Sobrenski said I was to tell you not to come. It isn't safe."
Emile did not answer. He could see that she was trembling violently and on the verge of an hysterical crisis. He rather hoped she would break down. It would seem more natural. Women were privileged to cry and scream, not that it was possible to imagine her screaming. He dragged forward a chair from the immaculate row against the wall.
As he did so he noticed that she kept her left hand behind her back as if to conceal something.
"Sit down," he ordered. "What's the matter with your hand? Are you hurt?"
The girl retreated before him.
"No!" she answered defiantly.
But Emile's quick eyes had seen a crumpled handkerchief flecked with red stains.
"Don't tell lies, Fatalité!" he said sharply. "Give me your hand at once."