“She was over Ghent when I spoke to her five minutes ago. She ought to be in quite shortly,” was the reply in French.
So Geoffrey went outside and strained his eyes to the south-west until he at last saw a speck in the distance which each moment increased, until the giant machine approaching came gradually lower, and after making a turn of the aerodrome, landed gracefully against the wind.
“Hulloa, Falconer!” cried Dennis, a round-faced, boyish-looking fellow, as in his leather suit and helmet he climbed out of the machine. “I’ve got your gear all right.”
They waited for the passengers to land, five of them, and chatted the while. Then from among the sacks of mail from England he pulled out a small wooden box, saying: “I went up to Liverpool Street and got it early this morning.”
The customs officer asked what the box contained, whereupon Falconer, who was known to him, chaffingly said it contained cigars. The good-humoured Belgian only laughed, and shrugging his shoulders chalked it as “passed.”
That afternoon, having an unexpected appointment at the Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, Geoffrey resolved to remain the night in Brussels. Therefore, he had taken a room at Wiltshire’s Hotel up on the Avenue Louise, rather than at the Grand or the Palace, for in summer, both being down in the city, they are unpleasantly hot. He kept his appointment at five, and then walking back to the hotel, dined, and set out for an evening stroll back down the steep hill into the city, where at one of the little tables set on the pavement before the Café Métropole, in the Place de Brouckère, he took his café noir.
Unknown to him, however, a slightly-built, thin-faced young man, who had been watching outside the hotel for nearly two hours, had followed him, and taken a seat unobtrusively near the table Geoffrey had selected, but inside the café in such a position that he could remain and watch.
There is always light, movement, and gaiety on a summer’s night at that point of the Belgian capital, for along the broad pavement passes a perfect panorama of Belgian life.
Geoffrey had been seated for about a quarter of an hour, and was idly smoking a cigarette when suddenly a tall, well-dressed, rather elderly man who was passing, caught sight of him, halted, and crossing to him, exclaimed in excellent English:
“Well, my dear Monsieur Falconer! Fancy finding you here—in Brussels!”