XV. The Show-downAt six-thirty that evening Mme. Storey, Horace, and I were waiting in the sitting-room of our suite, in a state of strained suspense. Horace had been told of the trap we had set. In the interim the wind had risen and the yacht was pitching somewhat heavily. What with the excitement and the motion of the vessel, I felt wretched.
Horace was glancing at his watch every few seconds. “If we set the door open we could see anybody who went down the corridor,” he said.
“Surely,” said Mme. Storey. “And he could see us. In that case we would hear no details of the plot.”
She was moving restlessly about the room. Suddenly she bent her head to listen by the door. “Somebody is passing now,” she said, with a grim smile. “On tiptoe.”
Horace instinctively sprang up, but she motioned h
