He showed it to Valeska and translated:
"Terrible mistake made. You are in great danger. Meet me Tuesday at midnight in the doorway of number 573 Eighth Avenue. Come alone. T."
Roughly scrawled on brown paper, and put into a plain but dirty envelope, the note was convincing. Tim, at any rate, would not be able to deny it for some time. It was not a message that the Count D'Ampleri would dare ignore.
The Count D'Ampleri did not ignore it. Smart and aristocratic in appearance, though foreign-looking with his Parisian silk hat, his queer trousers, and his waxed and pointed mustache, he was prompt at the rendezvous. Valeska and John Wallington Shaw, drifting slowly down the block, noticed him there waiting in the dusky doorway, looking impatiently up and down, smoking a cigarette. The count seemed to be a bit uneasy. He lighted one cigarette after another.
The two spectators passed again, talking absorbedly one to the other, but watching guardedly as they passed. At the Thirty-seventh Street corner they noticed a man standing, his back against a lamp-post. A child would have known him to be a policeman in plain clothes. His burly figure, his bull neck, the very cut of his mustache, proved it indubitably. He gave them a wink as they passed him. They crossed to the other side of the avenue and walked slowly. As they reached the far end of the block they suddenly stopped. Valeska began to giggle, pointed, and excitedly watched the scene across the street. Shaw seized her arm and
