Invasion
Invasion
“It seemed an interminable time but suddenly he heard voices outside, then two men entered the room.
Renzi got hurriedly to his feet. “Th-thank you, sir, so kind in you to see me.”
The man was tall and slender, even graceful, but what caught Renzi’s eye was the intensity of his features, the large, dark eyes, intelligent forehead and quick, darting manner. “Not at all, my friend,” he replied, in a hardly noticeable American accent, then smiled. “And if I’m not mistaken in my reckoning, you’re English, sir.”
“Oh—Smith, Nicholas Smith of, um, Plymouth in Devon,” Renzi stammered, hoping to appear overcome at being in the presence of such genius.
“I know where Plymouth is, friend. I spent three years in Devon at my easel. Fine place to be. Now, be so good as to tell me how an Englishman is here in Paris unhung?”
“Er, I’m assistant to the official mission concerning the exchange of prisoners-of-war—and by way of a scholar, but in the meanest degree,”
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