Lady Muriel continued to finger her gloves. They had been cleaned and the cryptic marks of the shopkeeper were visible along the inner side of the wrist hem. This was, to the woman, the first subterfuge of decaying smartness. When a woman began to send her gloves to the laundry she was on her way down. Other evidences were not entirely lacking in the woman's dress, but they were not patent to the casual eye. Lady Muriel was still, to the observer, of the gay top current in the London world.
The woman followed the man's glance about the room.
“You must be rich, Hecklemeir,” she said. “Lend me a hundred pounds.”
The man laughed again in his queer chuckle.
“Ah, no, my Lady,” he replied, “I do not lend.” Then he added.
“If you have anything of value, bring it to me.... not information from the ministry, and not war plans; the trade in such commodities is ended.”
It was the woman's turn to laugh.
“The shopkeepers in Oxford Street have been before you, Baron.. .. I've nothing to sell.”
Hecklemeir smiled, kneading his pudgy hands.
“It will be hard to borrow,” he said. “Money is very dear to the Britisher just now—right against his heart.... Still.... perhaps one's family could be thumb screwed......An elderly relative with no children would be the most favorable, I think. Have you got such a relative concealed somewhere in a nook of London? Think about it. If you could recall one, he would be like a buried nut.”