At the sight of him Robin could scarcely suppress an expression of amazement. It was Mr. Jeekes.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE
In a narrow, drowsy side street at Rotterdam, bisected by a somnolent canal, stood flush with the red-brick sidewalk a small clean house. Wire blinds affixed to the windows of its ground and first floors gave it a curious blinking air as though its eyes were only half open. To the neat green front door was affixed a large brass plate inscribed with the single name: “Schulz.”
A large woman, in a pink print dress with a white cloth bound about her head, was vigorously polishing the plate as, on the morning following her departure from London, Mary Trevert, Dulkinghorn’s letter of introduction in her pocket, arrived in front of the residence of Mr. William Schulz. Euan MacTavish had, on the previous evening, seen her to her hotel and had then—very reluctantly, as it seemed to Mary—departed to continue his journey to The Hague, his taxi piled high with white-and-green Foreign Office bags, heavily sealed with scarlet wax.
Mary Trevert approached the woman, her letter of introduction, which Dulkinghorn, being an unusual person, had fastened down, in her hand.
“Schulz?” she said interrogatively.
“Nicht da,” replied the woman without looking up from her rubbing.
“Has he gone out?” asked Mary in English.
“Verstehe nicht!” mumbled the woman.
But she put down her cleaning-rag and, breathing heavily, mustered the girl with a leisurely stare.