The red head bobbed to hide another grin.
Koyala glided in softly as a kitten. She was dressed as usual in the Malay-Javanese costume of kabaya and sarong. Peter Gross could not help noticing the almost mannish length of her stride and the haughty, arrogant tilt of her head.
"Unconquerable as the sea," he mused. "And apt to be as tempestuous. She's well named—the Argus Pheasant."
He placed a chair for her. This time she did not hesitate to accept it. As she seated herself she crossed her ankles in girlish unconsciousness. Peter Gross could not help noticing how slim and perfectly shaped those ankles were, and how delicately her exquisitely formed feet tapered in the soft, doe-skin sandals.
"Well, juffrouw, which of my controlleurs is in mischief now?" he asked in mock resignation.
Koyala flashed him a quick smile, a swift, dangerous, alluring smile.
"Am I always complaining, mynheer?" she asked.
Peter Gross leaned back comfortably. He was smiling, too, a smile of masculine contentment. "No, not always, juffrouw," he conceded. "But you kept me pretty busy at first."
"It was necessary, mynheer."
Peter Gross nodded assent. "To be sure, juffrouw, you did have reason to complain," he agreed gravely. "Things were pretty bad, even worse than I had expected to find them. But we are gradually improving conditions. I believe that my officers now know what is expected of them."