Surprised, Guelvada took the cigarette from between his lips, flicked it expertly into the roadway. He remembered that house.
He forgot for the moment about Kane, about Gallat, about the band-leader. His mind went sailing back to the time when he was a courier in Lisbon, when he had been in the habit of going to that house a dozen times a week. He smiled when he thought of the woman who lived in it.
From inside the house behind him came the sound of slow footsteps. Guelvada dismissed his dreams, turned to the doorway. After a moment it opened. A woman, discreetly garbed in black, looking like a housekeeper, stood in the doorway. Her expression was a mixture of inquiry and annoyance. She held a lamp in her hand.
Guelvada took off his hat. He said in excellent Portuguese that he was great
