About eight o'clock we drove to a little restaurant in the Bois de
Boulogne, dined quietly, and about nine set out on foot to walk to the
villa. There was a brief lull in the storm, but very soon the rain
fell again heavily, and as, of course, we took no umbrellas, we were
soon wet to the skin.
Making sure that we were not followed, we approached the garden
cautiously through the wood, the rain falling in torrents. At the edge
of the forest, near a well known fountain, beyond the house, we met by
appointment my man, Alphonse. He was dressed as an old woman and had
an empty basket on his arm. Together we moved through the wood and
shrubbery until we were opposite the side of the garden and about a
hundred feet from where the wall turned at a right angle.
Here, facing an avenue, the wall was broken midway by the arch of the
entrance gateway. The wind blew toward us, and we could hear now and
then the sound of voices.