The grace with which he moved was foreign rather than English. The other man could be better described as wiry and lean. His clothes fitted him sufficiently well, but no more, and Bundle guessed at his nationality even before she heard his voice.
“I reckon we’re the first to arrive at this little meeting.”
A full pleasant voice with a slight American drawl, and an inflection of Irish behind it.
The elegant young man said in good, but slightly stilted English:
“I had much difficulty in getting away tonight. These things do not always arrange themselves fortunately. I am not, like No. 4 here, my own master.”
Bundle tried to guess at his nationality. Until he spoke, she had thought he might be French, but the accent was not a French one. He might possibly, she thought, be an Austrian, or a Hungarian, or even a Russian.
The American moved to the other side of the table, and Bundle heard a chair being pulled out.
“One o’clock’s being a great success,” he said. “I congratulate you on taking the risk.”
Five o’clock shrugged his shoulders.
“Unless one takes risks—” He left the sentence unfinished.
Again seven taps sounded and Mosgorovsky moved across to the secret door.
She failed to catch anything definite for some moments since the whole company were out of sight, but presently she heard the bearded Russian’s voice upraised.