toned the jet-spangled waist and groped about the voluminous corsage.
With a still deeper sigh the hand was withdrawn, bringing with it a cigar. A match was struck, the cigar was lighted, and the figure in dowdy black sank into a chair, resting its boot-heels high on the end of the bed.
Before six luxurious puffs had been taken at that cigar a quiet knock sounded on the door. This knock was oddly repeated, translating itself to the attentive ear into a sort of organised tattoo.
The smoker arose, crossed the room and unlocked the door. Then he opened it, but without showing himself. His right hand, as he did so, was thrust through a slit in the black silk skirt, resting on the grip of a revolver half withdrawn from a padded hip-pocket.
The man who stepped into the room exhibited no surprise at either the scene or the figure confronting him. Like the first-comer, in fact, he scrutinised the chamber with the utmost care.
"Speak quietly," said the first occupant of the room as he re-locked the door.
"You can trust Maresi," explained the other, with a head-nod towards the outer passage.
"Then what's new?" was the prompt inquiry.
"Nothing of importance," answered the other, "since my last wire."
"Anything of Lambert?"
"Not a sign!"
"Morello?"
"Still under cover!"
