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Ennie crouched there under the friendly cover of the bushes, beyond which she could see across the road into the front garden of the house opposite. There was no light to be seen there, and, doubtless, the solitary occupant had been in bed and asleep for some time. It was all very still and silent now, with the echo of a fugitive footstep in the distant windows.
One by one these were blotted into the darkness, and still there was no sign of Michel Quint. The moon was rising, and presently, unless the fog came down again, it would be almost as light as day. Then, mercifully a thick belt of cloud drifted overhead, and the November fog came down again on the back of the chill breeze.