“If monsieur will drink his liqueur and depart,” she prayed.  “Indeed, it will be for the best.”

Mr. Sabin set down his glass.  His steadfast gaze seemed to reduce Annette into a state of nervous panic.

“Annette,” he said, “they have placed me upon the list.”

“It is true, monsieur,” she answered.  “Why do you come here?”

“I wanted to know first for certain that they had ventured so far,” Mr. Sabin said.  “I believe that I am only the second person in this country who has been so much honoured.”

The woman drew nearer to him.

“Monsieur,” she said, “your only danger is to venture into such parts as these.  London is so safe, and the law is merciless.  They only watch.  They will attempt nothing.  Do not leave England.  There is here no machinery of criminals.  Besides, the life of monsieur is insured.”

“Insured?” Mr. Sabin remarked quietly.  “That is good news.  And who pays the premium?”

“A great lady, monsieur!  I know no more.  Monsieur must go indeed.  He has found his way into the only place in London where he is not safe.”

Mr. Sabin rose.

“You are expecting, perhaps,” he said, “one of my friends from the—­”

She interrupted him.

“It is true,” she declared.  “He may be here at any instant.  The time is already up.  Oh, monsieur, indeed, indeed it would not do for him to find you.”

Mr. Sabin moved towards the door.

“You are perhaps right,” he said regretfully, “although I should much like to hear about this little matter of life insurance while I am here.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” Annette declared, “I know nothing.  There is nothing which I can tell monsieur.”

Mr. Sabin suddenly leaned forward.  His gaze was compelling.  His tone was low but terrible.

“Annette,” he said, “obey me.  Send Emil here.”

The woman trembled, but she did not move.  Mr. Sabin lifted his forefinger and pointed slowly to the door.  The woman’s lips parted, but she seemed to have lost the power of speech.

“Send Emil here!” Mr. Sabin repeated slowly.

Annette turned and left the room, groping her way to the door as though her eyesight had become uncertain.  Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette and looked for a moment carefully into the small liqueur glass out of which he had drunk.

“That was unwise,” he said softly to himself.  “Just such a blunder might have cost me everything.”

He held it up to the light and satisfied himself that no dregs remained.  Then he took from his pocket a tiny little revolver, and placing it on the table before him, covered it with his handkerchief.  Almost immediately a door at the farther end of the room opened and closed.  A man in dark clothes, small, unnaturally pale, with deep-set eyes and nervous, twitching mouth, stood before him.  Mr. Sabin smiled a welcome at him.