She drew deeply at her cigarette. 'Yes,' she said and her voice was pitched strangely low. 'You were quite right. I was once called Carla Rometta.' She hesitated I then. I waited and at length she said, 'You seem to know more about my affairs than I like in a stranger. For we have not met before, you know.'
'No,' I said. 'We have not met before.'
'You lied to me.'
'I had to open the conversation somehow.'
'So, we have not met. Yet you have my photograph. That picture was taken — oh, a long time ago, in Berlin.'
'Yes,' I said. 'It was taken by a Berlin photographer.'
'May I see it please?'
'I have not got it on me,' I lied.
She gave me a quick, searching glance. 'I see,' she said. 'I find it strange that you should carry my photograph when we have not met before. You will explain to me the reason — yes?' She was watching me. I concentrated on my cigarette. 'I had signed it?' she asked. 'And written on it also?'
I nodded.