He couldn’t help the trace of mockery in his bow as he said, “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” she said calmly, and walked back across the living room. The front door opened straight into it. There were glasses and bottles on a sideboard in the dining alcove across the room. As she went there she said, “What would you like to drink?”
“Brandy, I think, for this occasion,” he said.
She brought it to him in a tulip glass, and he sniffed and sipped analytically.
“Robin, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I remember — you had a natural taste.” His eyes ran up and down her slender shape with the same candid analysis. “I guess there’s only one thing you’ve changed. In Montreal, you were pretending to be Judith Northwade. What name are you using here?”
“Jeannine Roger. It happens to be my own.”
“A good name, anyway. Does it also belong to the last man I saw you with?”
For an instant she was almost puzzled.
“Oh, him. My God, no.”
“Then he isn’t lurking in the next room, waiting to cut loose with a sawed-off shotgun.”