“What!” he exclaimed laughingly. “More murder? Oh, Scheherazade! Shame on your naughty, naughty behaviour!”
“Do you expect to reach Paris with those papers?”
“I do, fair houri! I do, Rose of Stamboul!”
“You never will.”
“No?”
“No.” She sat staring ahead of her for a few moments, then turned on him with restrained impatience:
“Listen to me, now! I don’t know who you are. If you’re employed by any government you are a novice––”
“Or an artist!”
“Or a consummate artist,” she admitted, looking at him uncertainly.