"That is the way with him," she ruminated. "His agents never know anything."
"That does not, I trust, prevent my finding great pleasure in making your acquaintance, Mademoiselle," I ventured.
She looked at me curiously. Sixty seconds ago I should have described her as being, off the stage, disappointedly plain. I realised my mistake.
"It does not prevent your paying me any compliments you choose," she replied. "There is no reason why we should not be friends—even comrades. The only cloud between us appears to be that it will fall to your lot to kill the only man I have ever really cared for."
I started in my chair.
"I can assure you," I told her, "I am not out for that sort of thing at all."
"But it will come," she persisted.
"It will not," I contradicted her firmly. "I have done all the killing I want to, in fair fighting. I have a weakness for adventures, but nothing would induce me to become an assassin."
She looked at me contemplatively, leaning across from her chair with her chin balanced upon her hands. Then she got up and brought me a queer round wooden box of fragrant Russian cigarettes. She herself lit one, and I followed her example.
"Are you afraid, dear earnest Englishman," she asked, "that I should hate you? Let me tell you the truth. For this man I have no love any more. And he must die."