“Now that is nasty of you, for I don’t call you a bit ugly. Only just unbeautiful enough to prevent madame from being jealous.”
“Very well. I will go back to London to-morrow and interview Madame Kominski, if you will furnish me with her address.”
“But why not write?”
“A letter would not describe my appearance accurately enough. If madam desires some one who is unbeautiful, as you put it, a sight of me will go far to convince her that she has found the treasure she is in search of.”
“I don’t quite understand you, but of course I will write the address down for you, and if you really get the appointment, you must write me regular accounts of your adventures. Then I’ll have them printed in a book, and if I can’t find a buried treasure, I shall perhaps be famous as an authoress.”
“A valuable wrinkle, my dear. I must be careful not to write anything that isn’t intended to become public property.”
“Oh, but you are sure to be in such a perpetual state of excitement that you will not be able to weigh all your words when you are writing. There is one difficulty. Suppose they put you in prison, how will you manage to send your letters off?”
“You must trust me for that. I am sure to find some way of dispatching all the letters I am likely to write to you while in prison. On your side, you must never mention anything about Russia or the Russians in any letter you may dispatch to the czar’s country. Then we shall be all right.”
“Very well, then that is all arranged. But before you go downstairs I am going to show you the loveliest, most ravishing, most delightful thing you ever saw in your life. Look here!”
As May spoke, she jumped up and dived into one of her boxes, whence she fished out a whole handful of photographs. I naturally expected to behold the presentment of a superlatively beautiful member of my own sex, and was not a little astounded to see a dozen portraits of a popular but by no means wonderfully handsome actor.