She fell silent, and he spoke for the first time.
"You've anticipated," he said. "I was sent here to work with you and I intend to. I've already forgot that we ever met before to-night. What is dead is dead."
The woman smiled—but had she known what was in his mind at that moment she might not have been so pleased. However, she did not. And she lay back among the brocaded cushions, quite at ease, her hands clasped behind her head, chin tilted, eyes looking upon him as a cat's eyes look upon the mouse it is about to play with.
All of which did not pass unobserved by Trent, who pictured, instead of a woman lying upon the gold silks with her head lifted, a lithe, beautiful cobra with its black hood raised above the cushions; pictured her thus, and returned her gaze with frankness and a smile that disarmed her.
She clapped her hands and a servant brought wine. "Were you well informed as to the terms of the agreement?" she questioned, handing him a cup of claret-hued liquor.
"I believe so."
"That when you leave this house you are no longer Major Arnold Trent, but another—a well of secrets from which no man can draw, and as mute as the Buddha at Sarnath?"
He demonstrated that he could do so by remaining silent. She resumed:
"And you will do as I direct?"
"To a reasonable extent," he modified.