Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resigned himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.
"We cannot very well talk here," he said. "Suppose we go into the hotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian."
"Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name."
Stuart was on the point of saying, "Zara el-Khala then," but checked himself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with the enemy, but at least he would give away no information.
"I am called Miska," she added. "Will you please call me Miska?"
"Of course, if you wish," said Stuart, looking down at her as she walked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to stand up in Court, look at Miska in the felon's dock and speak words which would help to condemn her—perhaps to death, at least to penal servitude! He shuddered.
"Have I said something that displeases you?" she asked, resting a white-gloved hand on his arm. "I am sorry."
"No, no," he assured her. "But I was thinking—I cannot help thinking …"
"How wicked I am?" she whispered.
"How lovely you are!" he said hotly, "and how maddening it is to remember that you are an accomplice of criminals!"