Sabin stood quite still for a short space of time.
"Can I rest in there for a few minutes?" he asked, pointing to the
door which led into the room beyond.
The woman hesitated. She looked up at the clock and down again.
"Emil will return," she said, "at three. Monsieur were best out of
the neighbourhood before then. For ten minutes it might be safe."
Mr. Sabin passed forward. The woman lifted the flap of the counter
and followed him. Within was a smaller room, far cleaner and better
appointed than the general appearance of the place promised. Mr.
Sabin seated himself at one of the small tables. The linen cloth,
he noticed, was spotless, the cutlery and appointments polished and
clean.
"This, I presume," he remarked, "is not where you serve the
eightpenny table d'hote?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
"But it would not be possible," she answered. "We have no customers
for that. If one arrives we put together a few scraps. But one must
make a pretense. Monsieur understands?"
Mr. Sabin nodded.
"I will take," he said, "a small glass of fin champagne."
She vanished, and reappeared almost immediately with the brandy in
a quaintly cut liqueur glass. A glance at the clock as she passed
seemed to have increased her anxiety.
"If monsieur will drink his liqueur and depart," she prayed.
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