“My opinion,” said Sengoun, who was enchanted at any prospect of trouble, “is that this house is ‘suspect’ and is worth searching. Of course the Prefect could be notified, arrangements made, and a search by the secret police managed. But, Neeland, my friend, think of what pleasure we should be deprived!”
“How do you mean?”
“Why not search the place ourselves?”
“How?”
“Well, of course, we could be picturesque, go to my Embassy, and fill our pockets with automatic pistols, and come back here and—well, make them stand around and see how high they could reach with both hands.”
Neeland laughed.
“That would be a funny jest, wouldn’t it?” said Sengoun.
“Very funny. But––” He nudged Sengoun and directed his attention toward the terrace outside, where waiters were already removing the little iron tables and the chairs, and the few lingering guests were coming inside the café.
“I see,” muttered Sengoun; “it is already Sunday morning, and they’re closing. It’s too late to go to the Embassy. They’d not let us in here when we returned.”
Neeland summoned a waiter with a nod: