She made no endeavour to disguise her voice. Almost, I think, she spoke the words involuntarily.
I stood beside her. Quickly as she had turned from the door at my ascent, I had noted that it was that numbered forty-eight which she had been about to open.
"You waste words," I said grimly. "Who lives there?"
I nodded in the direction of the doorway. The violet eyes watched me with an expression in their depths which I find myself wholly unable to describe. Fear predominated, but there was anger, too, and with it a sort of entreaty which almost made me regret that I had taken this task upon myself. From beneath the shabby black hat escaped an errant lock of wavy hair wholly inconsistent with the assumed appearance of the woman. The flickering gaslight on the landing sought out in that wonderful hair shades which seemed to glow with the soft light seen in the heart of a rose. The thick veil was raised now and all attempts at deception abandoned. At bay she faced me, this secret woman whom I knew to hold the key to some of the darkest places which we sought to explore.
"I live there," she said slowly. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to know," I replied, "for whom are those provisions in your basket?"
She watched me fixedly.
"And I want to know," I continued, "something that only you can tell me. We have met before, madam, but you have always eluded me. This time you shall not do so. There's much I have to ask of you, but particularly I want to know who killed the Hashishin who lies dead at no great distance from here!"
"How can I tell you that? Of what are you speaking?"
Her voice was low and musical; that of a cultured woman. She evidently recognized the futility of further subterfuge in this respect.