Hans Becher stared, open-mouthed, as the man moved off.
“You will not to dinner return?”
The little man stopped, and smiled without apparent reason.
“No. Keep the grip. I expect to lunch,” again he smiled without provocation, “elsewhere. By the way,” he added, as an afterthought, “can you tell me where Mr. Maurice––Ichabod Maurice––lives?”
The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by his free hand. 153
“Straight out, eight miles. Little house with paint”––strong emphasis on the last––“white paint.”
“Thanks.”
Hans saw the escape of an opportunity.
“They are friends of yours, perhaps?”––he grasped at it.
The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit, sprang to his face.