He laughed. "I am afraid I have not done you justice hitherto. I have not taken you seriously enough. I think you are right in another thing—I had better not go yet. Our chat promises to be interesting. I should very much like a cigar. I wonder if Madame would object." He spoke lightly and took out his cigar case.
"It would be very appropriate," I said. "There is one character in a melodrama who always smokes."
"You mean the villain?"
"The hero rarely has time—after the first act, at any rate. He is generally being arrested, or hunted, or imprisoned, or ruined in some way—sometimes drugged."
He had struck the match and at my last word paused to look at me. He favoured me with such a stare that the match burnt his fingers, and he dropped it with a muttered oath which I affected not to hear. It was a very trifling incident; but he was so unusually careful in such matters as a rule that it offered another proof of his ill balance.
"I burnt my fingers and forgot my manners," he said lightly. "I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore."
"You mean that you wish to have time to recover from the surprise. Pray wait as long as you please—and think. I have no wish to take any fresh advantage over you—at present."
"Oh no, thank you," he cried, airily. "We will talk. Now, we must know where we stand, you and I?"
"At the moment we are in the salon of Madame d'Artelle, who was your instrument and tool."
"That 'was' sounds interesting. Is that your number one?"