It was impossible for madam to deny her own identity. Frank noticed that she grew pale—perceptibly so, and that the jeweled fingers of her ungloved hand twitched nervously.
“My name is Guiscardini,” she replied, after a slight hesitation, and speaking in frigid accents.
“May I beg the favor of a few moments’ private conversation with you, madam?” asked Frank Amberley. “My business is of the utmost importance, or I should not delay you just as you are going out.”
“Certainly not,” angrily replied the cantatrice, her lips trembling from mingled rage and fear. She imagined that perhaps this gentlemanly fellow, with the handsome face and urbane manners, might be a detective in disguise. “It is impossible, my time is not my own, and I cannot grant you even five minutes.”
She glanced at the jeweled watch that hung at her waist amid a coruscation of enameled lockets and miscellaneous toys and trinkets.
“I am sorry to be so pressing, madam, but if you will give me ten minutes—I promise to go by the dial of your own watch—I will not trespass longer.”
He knew well that the business he came on could not be disposed of in that time, but relied on the hope that she would, if persuaded to enter on it, voluntarily extend the time.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Madam Guiscardini sharply, looking keenly at him.
“My name, madam, is Amberley—I have the honor to belong to the firm of Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner, who are solicitors.”
“What do you want? I will not hear you, sir! Let me pass, sir. You are rude and unmannerly not to take a reasonable refusal. Let me pass, sir, I say—I insist!”