CHAPTER XVII
THREE-THIRTY A. M.
JOSEPH ALMER and Captain Woodhouse sat in the darkened and heavily blinded office-reception room of the Hotel Splendide. All the hotel had long since been put to bed, and the silence in the rambling house was audible. The hands of the Dutch clock on the wall were pointing to the hour of three-thirty.
Strain was on both the men. They spoke in monosyllables, and only occasionally. Almer's hand went out from time to time to lift a squat bottle of brandy from the table between them and pour a tiny glass brimful; he quaffed with a sucking noise. Woodhouse did not drink.
"It is three-thirty," the latter fretted, with an eye on the mottled clock dial.
"He will come," Almer assured. A long pause.
"This man Jaimihr—he is thoroughly de-
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