Of Mrs. Erskine and the inmates of the villa she took a friendly farewell on the twentieth, and caught the train to Avignon as she had mentioned in conversation. Here she browsed among its Roman remains and suffered its Roman wind till the twenty-third, when she motored out to the next station on the P.L.M. beyond Avignon and caught the Paris express, and on to Lille. Arrived at Lille early in the forenoon, she took a tram and saw the sights like any stranger. Only for lunch did she allow herself to drift into the Rue des Muguets. A café-restaurant almost opposite to No. 15 was her choice. She seated herself discreetly in an obscure corner, and had hardly finished a very good meal—Christine was no believer in a poached-egg day—when in walked Mr. Beale. She had his photograph inside her note-book at the moment. He paid no attention to her, but took a window-seat facing No. 15, and not only faced the large building but watched it intently. Once or twice he looked around, included her in his casual glance, and returned to his close watch. She laid down her paper. “Isn't that M. Voiron?” She named a popular cinema actor as she paid her bill. Her tip made the waiter willing to linger. “No, Madame,” he obviously regretted to shatter an illusion, “that is un Anglais. He comes here lately daily and always to that table.” Christine seemed to be barely listening. That the house was also kept under observation by others for the rest of the twenty-four hours was obvious. She emptied her letter-case under the table into her hand-bag. It was a plain black leather case. “I ask, because I saw him ahead of me in Rue Albert just now. He dropped this case. Will you please give it him at”—she glanced at the clock. It was exactly five minutes to two o'clock—“at two o'clock precisely. I do not want him to thank me personally, so please wait till two.” “As it strikes!” The waiter assured her heartily, “Madame can count on me.” Christine saw that her watch and the clock were to the second together. At exactly one minute past two she crossed the street and entered the door of No. 15, a door with many signs chiefly of insurance companies, and the men of the law in black and gold outside the handsome portals. She had noted how far into its open throat anyone on the opposite side could see. Just beyond this she flashed a glance backward. As she had hoped, Mr. Beale's head, with its fringe of reddish hair, was turned quite away from the window to the black-haired waiter standing beside him—her waiter. She passed up the stairs in her silent galoshes. On the third floor was a sign: “Beauregard et Fils.” She looked at the landing from above. There was only one large door on each floor. No one was about. It was the sacred hour of noon repose.