The Eight Strokes of the Clock

I

On the Top of the Tower

Hortense Daniel pushed her window ajar and whispered:

“Are you there, Rossigny?”

“I am here,” replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house.

Leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man looking up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers.