The men in gray knew this better than anyone. Nobody knew the value of an hour or a minute, or even of a single second, as well as they.
They were experts on time just as leeches are experts on blood, and they acted accordingly.
They had designs on people's time - long-term and well-laid plans of their own.
What mattered most to them was that no one should become aware of their activities.
They had surreptitiously installed themselves in the city.
Now, step by step and day by day, they were secretly invading its inhabitants' lives and taking them over.
They knew the identity of every person likely to further their plans long before that person had any inkling of it.
They waited for the ideal moment to entrap him, and they saw to it that the ideal moment came.
One such person was Mr Figaro, the barber. Though not by any means a high-class hairdresser, he was well respected in the neighbourhood.
Neither rich nor poor, he owned a small barbershop in the centre of town and employed an apprentice.
One day, Mr Figaro was standing at the door of his shop waiting for customers. It was the apprentice's day off, so he was alone.
Raindrops were spattering the pavement and the sky was bleak and dreary - as bleak and dreary as Mr Figaro's mood.
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