75 
North From Paris

Leaving Ramsay’s room, Amanda hurried down the hall, then quickly up the stairway.

She walked straight to her room and began hurriedly changing clothes. The next phase of her plan required an altogether different fashion statement, one which she hoped would draw far fewer eyes than had Mademoiselle Très Chic.

She had made arrangements to keep some of her things at the hotel until she returned. She had already left them at the desk. She needed to travel as lightly as possible. She was ready to go and would await Barclay on the street outside the station, watch and listen to find out where he was going, and make use of Gertrut Oswald’s passport one last time to follow him.

She left her room and started toward the lobby.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs, suddenly she heard the voices of the three coming up from the ground floor.

“ . . . all goes well . . . see you in the north . . . or perhaps Vienna. . . .” It was Barclay’s voice.

“ . . . may need to use the lighthouse myself,” said Ramsay, “ . . . how it develops.”

“I’m off, then,” said Barclay, “ . . . train to Brussels . . . thirty-five minutes.”

The next thing she heard, two sets of feet began to ascend the stairs along with Ramsay’s and Sadie’s voices. Amanda slunk back out of sight on the landing of the fourth floor. Closer and closer came the voices, then turned off the landing at the third floor. The instant they were down the hall toward their room, Amanda flew down the rest of the way. There was not a second to waste. She couldn’t lose Barclay now.

She exited onto the street just in time to see him disappearing in a cab in the direction of the station. She hailed another and was soon on her way after him.

She reached the station less than a minute behind the white-haired Englishman and hurried inside. The sights and sounds and bustle of the station reminded her of the terror of the Vienna station when she had just barely escaped his clutches. Now the tables were turned—she was following him. And she wouldn’t be so easily recognizable now!

She glanced quickly at the schedule board.

There it was—Brussels, nine-thirteen.

Where was Barclay? She’d lost him!

Frantically she looked all about. There he was, stopped briefly at a kiosk. Perfect—she would board the train ahead of him! He would suspect nothing.

Amanda ran for the ticket window.