“Fascinating room,” she said, with a glance round it. “But horrible,” and her thin shoulders shrugged. “Those tassels are enough to make a hen cross the road!”
Milly giggled, and for the first time since the day of the tragedies.
Dinner was rather pleasant than otherwise. The detective, laying aside all thought or talk of his purpose there, was entertaining and even merry. He spoke somewhat of himself, and it transpired that he was an artist,—an illustrator of current magazine stories.
“And Zizi is my model,” he informed them, “that is, when I want a thin, scarecrow type. I don’t use her for the average peach heroine. Look out Ziz, don’t eat too much of that potato puff! You see, if she puts on a bit of flesh, she runs straight back to the movie studios.”
“Ah, a film star?” said Braye.
“Not a star,” and Wise shook his head. “But a good little actress for a brat part.”
Zizi flashed an amused smile from her black eyes and partook again of the forbidden potato puff.
“Zizi! For the love of Mike!” expostulated Wise.
“The love of Mike is the root of all evil,” said Zizi, saucily; “but then, everything is.”
“Is what?” asked Eve, interested against her will in this strange child.