rpence the small bottle.

A stout black-eyed woman looked up at his entrance from behind the
counter. The place was empty.

"What does monsieur require she asked, peering forward through the gloom
with some suspicion. For the eightpenny dinners were the scorn of the
neighbourhood, and strangers were rare in the wine shop of Emil Sachs."

Mr. Sabin smiled.

"One of your excellent omelettes, my good Annette," he answered, "if
your hand has not lost its cunning!"

She gave a little cry.

"It is monsieur!" she exclaimed. "After all these years it is monsieur!
Ah, you will pardon that I did not recognise you. This place is a
cellar. Monsieur has not changed. In the daylight one would know him
anywhere."

The woman talked fast, but even in that dim light Mr. Sabin knew quite
well that she was shaking with fear. He could see the corners of her
mouth twitch. Her black eyes rolled incessantly, but refused to meet
his. Mr. Sabin frowned.

"You are not glad to see me, Annette!"

She leaned over the counter.

"For monsieur's own sake," she whispered, "go!"

Mr. 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. "Indeed, it
will be for the best."

Mr. Sabin set down his