They had stopped before a brownstone house which had been converted into a basement dwelling, and which was now recessed between two modern shops constructed as far as the building line.
All the shades and curtains in the house were drawn and the place appeared to be quite dark, but a ring at the bell brought a big, powerfully built porter, who admitted them to a brightly lighted reception room. Then the porter replaced the chains on the door of bronze.
“Just a little while, if you will be amiable enough to have patience,” said Renoux.
He went away toward the rear of the house and Barres seated himself. And in a few moments the burly porter reappeared with a tray containing a box of cigarettes and a tall glass of Moselle.
“Monsieur Renoux will not be long,” he said, bringing a sheaf of French illustrated periodicals to the little table at Barres’ elbow; and he retired with a bow and resumed his chair in the corridor by the bronze door.
Through closed doors, somewhere from the rear of 285 the silent house came the distant click of a typewriter. At moments, too, looking over the war pictures in the periodicals, Barres imagined that he heard a confused murmur as of many voices.
Later it became evident that there were a number of people somewhere in the house, because, now and then, the porter unlatched the door and drew the chains to let out some swiftly walking man.
Once two men came out together. One carried a satchel; the other halted in the hallway to slip a clip into an automatic pistol before dropping it into the side pocket of his coat.
And after a while Renoux appeared, bland, debonaire, evidently much pleased with whatever he had been doing.
Two other men appeared in the corridor behind him; he said something to them in a low voice; Barres imagined he heard the words, “Washington” and “Jusserand.”