“God bless you, Inspector Sandoff,” she whispered.
The door opened and closed. Her light footsteps echoed through the hall and down the staircase. Then all was silence.
When she had gone Sandoff remained standing a moment by the door, pressing his hands to his forehead as though he would stifle the conflicting thoughts that were struggling for mastery in his brain.
Then he picked up a glass of vodka from the table, and swallowed a little of the strong spirit. The composing effect of this was instantaneous. He walked steadily across the floor and threw open the door of the middle room. An expression of relief appeared on his face as he saw that the apartment was empty, and the rear door as he had left it.
“My fears were groundless,” he thought. “Zamosc is the last man to pry into private affairs.”
He opened the back room and called the occupants out.
“I regret being compelled to keep you waiting so long,” he said in apologetic tones. “My visitor was very importunate.”
“It makes no difference,” said Zamosc; “but I am glad that you are here all the same, for I have an important engagement, and must leave at once. It is already half past ten. What about this stupid fellow whom I brought here?” he added in a low tone. “Does he know anything of the Shamarin affair?”
“Nothing new,” replied Sandoff. “He tells me that Shamarin is concealed within half a mile of the Ostroff bridge on the Fontana Canal—a piece of information which we have known for the past two days. By the way, if anything turns up before morning, let me know. I shall remain here all night.”
“Very well,” said Zamosc.