Simon turned and looked at her.
She sat alone, as certain other women did there, with a pile drink in front of her. He hadn't paid any attention to her when he chose his stool, but he did now. Because she had a real beauty that was the last thing he had expected there — in spite of the traditional requirements of a well-cast mystery.
Beauty of a stately kind that had no connection with the common charms of the other temptations there. A face as pale and aristocratic as that of a grand duchess, but with the more earthy touches of broad forehead and wide cheekbones that betrayed the Slav. Blonde hair as lustrous as frozen honey, braided severely around her head in a coiffure that would have been murder to any less classic bone structure. Green eyes that matched her deep-cut green gown. By her birth certificate she might have been any age; but by the calendars of a different chronology she had been old long ago — or ageless.
"Why were you looking for me?" she asked in that voice of unfamiliar harmonies.
The bartender had moved down the counter and was busy with other ministrations.
"I wanted to know," said the Saint steadily, "what you can tell me about a character called Henry Stephen Matson — possibly known to you as Henry Stephens."
3
He had to admire the way she handled the mask of her face, even with the underlying configuration to help her.
"But why should you ask me?" she protested, with seductive bewilderment.
The Saint put one elbow on the bar and pillowed his chin on the hand attached to it.