"I hope you're feeling better?" I said, with an encouraging smile.
Her answer was a glance of such intense hatred and contempt that I instinctively got up from the sofa.
"Well," she said, "why don't you ring the bell, and hand me over to the police?"
She spoke in low, passionate tones and with a very slight foreign accent, but her voice was delicious. It was one of those deep, sorrowful contraltos that seem pathetic with all the woe of the world.
I looked back steadily into her indignant eyes.
"I object to the police on principle," I said. "Besides, I really don't see what they have to do with the matter. You have only smashed a desk, after all."
Before she could make any reply there came a sudden sound of footsteps on the landing outside, followed a moment later by a discreet knock at the door.
"Who's that?" I called out.
The somewhat apologetic voice of Milford answered me through the panels. "It's only me, sir. I fancied I heard something drop in your room, and came to see if I could be of any assistance."
For a second I hesitated, and then, walking to the door, I opened it just wide enough to prevent him from seeing in.