"What else, sir?" asked the gentleman's gentleman.
The Saint rang the doorbell. He and Avalon were presently shown into the drawing room, furnished in chrome and leather, lightened by three excellent Monets, hooded in red velvet drapes. Mrs. Meldon came to them there.
She was most unexpected. She did not conform. She was beautiful, but not in the fashion affected by the house. Hers was an ancient beauty, recorded by Milton, sung by Sappho. She was tall and dark. Her hair reminded you of Egyptian princesses — black and straight, outlining a dark face that kings might have fought for. She walked with an easy flowing motion in high heels that accentuated a most amazing pair of slim ankles and exciting legs. These latter were bare and brown.
Her dress was of some simple stuff, a throwaway factor until you saw how it highlighted such items as should be highlighted. It clung with loving care to her hips, it strutted where it should strut. She had a placid smile, dark eyes brightened with amusement, and a firm handshake.
Her voice held overtones of curiosity. "You wanted to see me?"
The Saint introduced himself.
"I am Arch Williams, a researcher for Time magazine. This is my wife."
"Quite a dish," Mrs. Meldon said. "I'll bet you play hell with visiting firemen. I'm very happy to meet you. Drink? Of course. You look the types."
Her teeth, the Saint noted, were very white. She rang a bell with a brown hand. A servant appeared.
"Move the big bar in here, Walker." To the Saint: "Those monkey suits kill me. Gerry thinks they're necessary. Prestige, you know." She made the phrase sound like unacceptable language from a lady. "Time, hmm? What do you want from me? Never mind, yet. Wait'll we get a drink. You have lovely legs, Mrs. Williams."