‘Perfectly,’ answered the other impassively. Then he rapidly made certain cabalistic signs with his fingers.
The face of Jules turned as white as the napkin on his arm.
Then still addressing him in French, the mysterious stranger said in his most impressive tones: ‘The right hand of the Czar is frozen.’
To which, after a moment or two, the blanched lips of Jules framed the response: ‘But Signor Sanguinetti lives and is well.’
For an instant or two the men gazed into each other’s eyes. ‘It is well,’ said the stranger presently. ‘We understand each other.’
‘Monsieur has something to say to me—some instructions to impart?’ said the other obsequiously, while his knees shook under him.
‘I have. Come to my room at midnight, and I will talk with you.’
‘I am at the service of monsieur.’
‘Till midnight, then.’
‘Till midnight.’