“Alexandrakis?” His mistress turned a little puzzled frown upon him. “What is he like, Conner?”
The man considered a safe moment. “He’s a furriner,” he said, addressing the wall before him with impassive jaw.
A little light crossed her face—not a look of pleasure. “Ask Miss Stone to come to me—at once,” she said.
The man bowed himself out and departed on silken foot.
Miss Stone, gentle and fluttering and fine-grained, appeared a moment later in the doorway.
“He has come,” said the woman, without looking up.
“He—?” Miss Stone’s lifted eyebrows sought to place him—
“The Greek—I told you—”
“Oh—The Greek—!” It was slow and hesitant. It spoke volumes for Miss Stone’s state of mind. Hours of Greek history were in it, and long rows of tombs and temples—the Parthenon of gods and goddesses, with a few outlying scores of heroes and understudies. “The—Greek,” she repeated, softly.
“The Greek,” said the woman, with decision. “He has asked for Betty and for me. I cannot see him, of course.”