It was typical of her that she dismissed Fernack's offer without a moment's uneasiness. After she had bathed and swallowed some coffee, however, she did summon the sallow and perspiring Mr. Ullbaum who lived a feverish life as her press agent and vaguely general manager.
"There'll be some reporters calling for interviews," she said. "Some of 'em have been on the phone already. Tell 'em anything that comes into your head, but keep it funny."
Mr. Ullbaum spluttered, which was a habit of his when agitated, which was most of the time.
"But what's so funny if he does steal the necklace?"
"He isn't going to get the necklace — I'll take care of that. But I hope he tries. Everybody he's threatened to rob before has gone into hysterics before he's moved a finger, and they've been licked before he starts. I'm going to lick him and make him look as big as a flea at the same time — and all without even getting out of breath. We'll treat it as a joke now, and after he's made a fool of himself and it really is a joke, it'll be ten times funnier. For God's sake go away and use your own brain. That's what I pay you for. I've got a headache."
She was her regal self again by cocktail time, when the Saint saw her across the room at the Versailles with a party of friends, immaculately groomed from the top of her tight-waved head to the toes of her tight-fitting shoes and looking as if she had just stepped out of an advertisement for guillotines. He sauntered over in answer to her imperiously beckoning forefinger.
"I see your press agent didn't waste any time, Mr. Templar."
"I don't know," said the Saint innocently. "Are you sure you didn't drop a hint to your own publicity man?"
She shook her head.
"Mr. Ullbaum was quite upset when he heard about it."