“Then I want this letter delivered by hand. It is most secret and important, and I would only trust it to you, Mr Waldron, because I know that you would never betray my confidence whatever may happen.” And she drew forth with nervous fingers from within her blouse a letter sealed with a large black seal bearing the single letter “L.” Waldron took it and saw that the address read:
“Private—To Monsieur S. Petrovitch, Bruxelles.”
“See here,” she went on, showing him a small scrap of paper upon which she had written: “Slavo Petrovitch, Box 463 Bureau de Poste, Bruxelles.”
“On arrival in Brussels send word to this address that you are there, and you will be met if you make an appointment in the Café Métropole.”
“But if this letter is in such strict secrecy how am I to establish the identity of the Monsieur Petrovitch?” Waldron queried after a second’s thought.
For answer she opened the small circular golden locket she wore suspended by a thin platinum chain and exhibited to him a photograph within.
He held his breath as his eyes fell upon it. The picture was that of Henri Pujalet!
She smiled mysteriously in his face, saying:
“You recognise him, I see, as one of our fellow-travellers on the Nile?”
“Yes I do,” was Waldron’s brief response.