Something at the back of his brain suggested to him that he knew the
man's face, that he had seen him before. A spy probably. It was
nothing unusual for any of them to be "shadowed," and for their
out-goings and in-comings to be noted.
The highly gilded French clock on the mantel-piece at the far end of
the room announced the hour as being a quarter to twelve. Emile
stooped down to pick up his sombrero which had tumbled off a chair on
to the floor, when he remained with outstretched hand, arrested by the
sound of a woman's voice which came through the partly opened door of
the proprietor's private room and office. A woman's voice? It was
Arithelli's unmistakably.
He recovered himself and the sombrero together, and twisted round in
his seat so as to get a view of the door, which was on his left hand,
half way down the long room. It had a glass top, across which a dark
green curtain was drawn. Emile knew that it was possible to enter this
room without passing through the _cafe_. There was another door which
led into a passage through the kitchen and back part of the house, and
from thence into a side-street, or rather a small alley.
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