I threw myself into a cane chair in the hall, and lit a cigar, for it was yet early. I suppose I must have remained there perhaps half an hour, when a waiter brought me a note. Tearing it open, I found in it a scribbled message, in pencil, from Asta.
“There is danger, as I suspected,” she wrote. “Be careful. Do not approach us, and know nothing. Destroy this.—Asta.”
I crushed the letter in my pocket and dismissed the servant. What could it mean?
Not more than a quarter of an hour later, as I still sat smoking and pondering, a tall, dark-bearded, pale-faced, rather elegant-looking Frenchman, wearing the crimson button of the Legion d’Honneur in his coat, entered the hall from the street, and glancing round quickly, advanced to the bureau.
A moment later he came towards me and, halting, bowed and exclaimed in good English—
“Pardon, m’sieur, but I have the honour to speak with Monsieur Kemball. Is that not so?”
“That is my name,” I replied.
“I have something of importance to communicate to Monsieur,” he said, very politely, holding his grey felt hat in his hand and glancing quickly around. “May I speak with you privately?”
“Certainly,” I replied; and recollecting a small salon off the hall on the left, led the way thither, and switched on the light.
Then, when he had carefully closed the door and we were alone, he said with a pleasant smile—