"I suppose so."
He went again to the window.
"Tough customers," he muttered, with a chuckle. "Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting."
Olga Demiroff shook her head.
"If the American is the kind of man they say he is, it will take more than a couple of cowardly apaches to get the better of him." She paused. "I wonder———"
"Well?"
"Nothing. Only twice this evening a man has passed along this street—a man with white hair."
"What of it?"
"This. As he passed those two men, he dropped his glove. One of them picked it up and returned it to him. A threadbare device."
"You mean—that the white-haired man is—their employer?"
"Something of the kind."
The Russian looked alarmed and uneasy.
"You are sure—the parcel is safe? It has not been tampered with? There has been too much talk . . . much too much talk."
He gnawed his nails again.
"Judge for yourself."
She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing the coals. Underneath, from amongst the crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected from the very middle an oblong package wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and handed it to the man.
"Ingenious," he said, with a nod of approval.
