Desmond bowed and handed the paper back to its owner.
“Madame must accept my humble excuses,” he murmured, hardly knowing what he was saying, so great was his surprise, “my house and services are at Madame’s disposal!”
“The other letter was from Count Plettenbach, the Prince’s A.D.C., whom I think you know!” added the dancer in a mollified voice as she replaced the slip of paper in its pocketbook and stowed it away in her hand-bag. Then, looking up archly at Desmond, she said:
“Am I so distasteful, then, to have in your house?”
She made a charming picture. Her heavy fur coat had fallen open, disclosing her full round throat, very brown against the V-shaped opening of her white silk blouse. Her mouth was a perfect cupid’s bow, the upper lip slightly drawn up over her dazzlingly white teeth. Before Desmond could answer her question, if answer were needed, her mood had swiftly changed again. She put her hand out, a little brown hand, and laying it on his shoulder, looked up appealingly into his eyes.
“You will protect me,” she said in a low voice, “I cannot bear this hunted life. From this side, from that, they, are closing in on me, and I am frightened, so very frightened. Promise you will keep me from harm!”
Desmond gazed down into her warm, expressive eyes helplessly. What she asked was impossible, he knew, but he was a soldier, not a policeman, he told himself, and under his breath he cursed the Chief for landing him in such a predicament. To Nur-el-Din he said gently:
“Tell me what has happened to frighten you. Who is hunting you? Is it the police?”
She withdrew her hand with a gesture of contempt.
“Bah!” she said bitterly. “I am not afraid of the police.”