Mosgorovsky shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Suddenly No. 5 leant forward.
“I agree with Anna; where is our president— No. 7? He who called us into being. Why do we never see him?”
“ No. 7,” said the Russian, “has his own ways of working.”
“So you always say.”
“I will say more,” said Mosgorovsky. “I pity the man—or woman—who comes up against him.”
There was an awkward silence.
“We must get on with our business,” said Mosgorovsky quietly. “ No. 3, you have the plans of Wyvern Abbey?”
Bundle strained her ears. So far she had neither caught a glimpse of No. 3, nor had she heard his voice. She heard it now and recognised it as unmistakable. Low, pleasant, indistinct—the voice of a well-bred Englishman.
“I’ve got them here, sir.”
Some papers were shoved across the table. Everyone bent forward. Presently Mosgorovsky raised his head again.
“And the list of guests?”
“Here.”
The Russian read them.