"Yes," he acknowledged modestly, "I am the traveling salesman. But you aren't the farmer's daughter."
"No," she answered without smiling. "My name is Ivanovitch."
"Which means, in Russian, exactly what 'Johnson' would mean here."
"But it's my name."
"And so is 'Templar' mine. But it says 'Temple' in the paper, and yet you placed me at once."
"For that matter," she said, "why did you ask me about — Henry?"
"Because, my sweet, if you'd like the item for your memoirs, your name was on dear Henry's lips just before he passed away."
She shuddered, and closed her eyes for a moment.
"It must have been a gruesome experience for you."
"How did you guess?" he inquired ironically, but she either didn't feel the irony or chose to ignore it.