Decidedly he had; and so had nine-tenths of New York's newspaper-reading population. His eyes widened with new interest.
"Truly?" he said, civilly responsive to the challenge in her announcement. "But I never knew Mrs. Jefferson Inche was beautiful."
"It needs a beautiful woman to be known as the most dangerous in Town," she explained with modest pride.
"But—ah—Mr. Inche, I understand, died some years ago."
"So he did."
"Yet you speak of your husband—?"
"Of my present husband, whose name I don't wear for reasons of real-estate. I took the rotter on because he's rich and will be richer when his father dies; he married me because he was rotten and I had the worst reputation he could discover. So we're quits there. If our marriage comes out prematurely, he'll be disinherited; so we've agreed to a sub-rosa arrangement which leaves him, ostensibly, a marketable bachelor. Now, I happen to know a marriage has recently been offered him through which he would immediately come into control of a big pot of money, and naturally he's strong for it. But I refused his offer of a cool half-million to play the Reno circuit, and so he concluded to sue for a divorce with a revolver, a Maxim silencer, and a perfect alibi. Do you follow me?"
"As far as the alibi."
"Oh, that's quite simple. We don't live together, and he's in sure-enough society, and I'm not. To-night the annual Hadley-Owen post-lenten masquerade's in full swing just around the corner, and friend husband's there with the rest of the haughty bunch. Can't you see how easy it would be for him to drop round here between dances, murder his lawful wedded wife, and beat it back, without his absence ever being noticed?"
"It does sound feasible, if—ah—sickening," P. Sybarite admitted. "But really, it's hard to believe. Are you positive—?"