Mr. SABIN drew a little breath, partly of satisfaction because he had discovered the place he sought, and partly of disgust at the neighbourhood in which he found himself. Nevertheless, he descended three steps from the court into which he had been directed, and pushed open the swing door, behind which Emil Sachs announced his desire to supply the world with dinners at eightpence and vin ordinaire at fourpence 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! Ab, 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 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.
"Good-morning, Emil Sachs," he said. "I am glad that you have shown discretion. Stand there in the light, please, and fold your arms.
Thanks. Do not think that I am afraid of you, but I like to talk comfortably."
"I am at monsieur's service," the man said in a low tone.
"Exactly. Now, Emil, before starting to visit you I left a little note behind addressed to the chief of the police here - no, you need not start - to be sent to him only if my return were unduly delayed. You can guess what that note contained. It is not necessary for us to revert to - unpleasant subjects."
The man moistened his dry lips.
"It is not necessary," he repeated. "Monsieur is as safe here - from me - as at his own hotel."
