watched as she sat at the little round table of the Café de la Paix.
Kestner's intent gaze was fixed on this woman's face as she stepped into the room. More than ever he was struck by its sense of reserve, of spiritual isolation, and more than ever he was impressed by its youthful yet austere beauty. He was struck, too, by a newer note, by something that seemed almost a touch of fragility. And about the softer lines of the mouth he detected a trace of latent rebelliousness.
The newcomer, however, scarcely looked at Kestner. The sight of a man tied and trussed and gagged there seemed in no wise to disturb her. Her eyes went close to the face of Lambert and remained there while she spoke.
"What is it?" she asked, in a clear and reedy voice that made Kestner think of a clarionet.
Lambert waved a hand towards the signature thrown on the screen by the projecting lantern.
"Try that, freehand," he said. "Then do it over again on the tracing-desk. I want it right."
The woman took paper and ink and from a row of pens selected a particular point. She stared for a few seconds at the signature, and then bent over her task.
She did not speak as she handed the slip of paper to Lambert. He took it, too, in silence, switching off his lantern, withdrawing Kestner's signature, and adjusting the newly written imitation in its place. Then he switched on the light again.
Even Kestner, accustomed as he was to the cleverest of forgeries, was plainly startled as he saw that name
