Again the ambiguous grunt.
“Exactly,” Cartaret agreed; “the Café Des Deux Colombes, in the rue Jacob, close by the rue Bonaparte. You—you’re quite sure you won’t forget?”
The grunt changed to an ugly chuckle, and, after the chuckle, an ugly voice said:
“Monsieur expects something unusual: he expects an evening visitor?”
“Confound it, no!” snapped Cartaret. He had been wildly hoping that perhaps The Girl might need some aid or direction that evening and might seek it of him. “Not at all,” he pursued, “but you see——”
“How then?” inquired the voice.
Cartaret’s hand went to his pocket and drew forth one of the few franc-pieces that remained there.
“Just, please, remember what I’ve said,” he requested.
In the darkness of the box into which it was extended, his hand was grasped by a larger and rougher hand, and the franc was deftly extracted.
“Merci, monsieur.”