"I don't deny,"—the secret-service man stood up, but he dropped his voice to a lower register, as though the invisible comer were already at the door—"I'm not for a moment denying that this woman can do a certain amount of harm. She's got to be suppressed. But think of what she might do! She's had every opportunity, and she'll always fall short."
"Not ruthless enough?"
"Oh, she can be as ruthless as you please,"—Singleton for some reason had crossed the hall. He stood leaning against the wall near the billiard-room. "She could put a bullet in you nicely, after she'd blinded you with cayenne. But,"—Singleton shook his head—"she hasn't the right standards."
"Oh, standards?" echoed Napier. It seemed a queer word.
"At heart," said Singleton, "she has longings, as I read per record—ineradicable longings—for, what do you think? Respectability!" He smiled and then shook his fine head. "To be any good as a spy you must be either aristocrat—a perfectly satisfying law unto yourself, or you must be canaille. This woman—she's bourgeoise to the core, and a Romantic to boot. There doesn't exist a more fatal combination. I tell you,"—he stood erect—"Greta Schwarz is done for. Kaput!"
"She doesn't look it." Napier, leaning over, had caught sight of the car.
Gliding round the drive, the handsome occupant visibly luxuriating in the comfort and elegance of Lady McIntyre's limousine, Greta von Schwarzenberg lay back against the dove-colored cushions, with only her heightened color to show her the least stirred by the unexpected summons. Or was the color there, like a couple of flags, hung out in honor of Napier's return?
"Ecoutez!" Singleton's head appeared an instant out of the drawing-room door. "There's just one thing missing in that box of tricks upstairs—pinch of white powder. You must look out for that if we don't want a corpse on our hands."
"I must look out? See here—"
Singleton's head vanished.