The Midnight Visitor
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- Ausable did not fit any description of a secret agent that Fowler had ever read. And then there was his accent. Though he spoke French and German passably, he had never altogether lost the American accent he had brought to Paris from Boston twenty years ago.
- Following him down the musty corridor of the gloomy French hotel where Ausable had a room, Fowler felt let down. It was a small room, on the sixth and top floor, and scarcely a setting for a romantic adventure.
- As he spoke, Ausable closed the door behind him. Then he switched on the light. And as the light came on, Fowler had his first authentic thrill of the day.
- sigh
- You wished to meet me because you are a writer, young and romantic.
- You are disappointed. You were told that I was a secret agent, a spy, dealing in espionage and danger.
- You envisioned mysterious figures in the night, the crackof pistols, drugs in the wine.
- For halfway across the room, a small automatic pistol in his hand, stood a man. Ausable blinked a few times.
- who, instead of having messages slipped into his hand by dark-eyed beauties,
- Instead, you have spent a dull evening in a French music hall with a sloppy fat man,
- gets only a prosaic telephone callmaking an appointment in his room. You have been bored!
- You are disillusioned! But take cheer, my young friend. Presently you will see a paper, a quite important paper for which several men and women have risked their lives, come to me.
- Some day soon that paper may well affect the course of history. In that thought is drama, is there not?
- Max! You gave me quite a start. I thought you were in Berlin. What are you doing here in my room?
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