“I think not. Be at ease. He has disappeared in another direction. Have the kindness to show me the way out.”
The man led the way to the steps and up them, into a tiny ground-floor bedroom, and through that into a passage. As he unbolted a side door, Henry said to him, “You know something about Signor Wilbraham, then?”
The plump little figure shrugged.
“A good deal too much, certainly.”
“Good,” said Henry. “Later you shall tell what you know. Don't be afraid. He can't hurt you.”
As to that the raised eyebrows showed doubt. Wilbraham, it was apparent, inspired a deep mistrust. The fat little man was shivering, either from fear or cold or thwarted sleep, as he opened the door for Henry to pass out.
“The will of God will be done,” was what he regretfully said, “unless his dear Mother can by any means avert it. For me, I escape, if necessary, where they cannot find me. Good-night, Signore.”
He shut the door softly behind Henry, who found himself outside a block of old houses at the lake end of the Rue Muzy, under a setting moon, as the city clocks struck two. The night, which had seemed to Henry already so long, was yet, as nights of action go, young.
Henry, as he walked homewards by the lake's edge, wondered where and in what manner Macdermott and Garth had emerged, or would emerge, to the earth's face.