For a while she remained silent, then she looked at him curiously: "Were you armed?"
"I carry an automatic pistol in my portfolio pocket."
She shrugged.
"You were a fool to come into that house without carrying it in your
hand."
"Where would you be now if I had done that?"
"Dead, I suppose," she said carelessly.... "What are you going to do
with me?"
He was in excellent humour with himself; exhilaration and excitement
still possessed him, keyed him up.
"Fancy," he said, "a foreign embassy being mixed up in a plain case of
grand larceny!--robbing with attempt to murder! My dear but
bloodthirsty young lady, I can hardly comprehend it."
She remained silent, looking straight in front of her.
"You know," he said, "I'm rather glad you're not a common thief.
You've lots of pluck--plenty. You're as clever as a cobra. It isn't
every poisonous snake that is clever," he added, laughing.
"What do you intend to do with me?" she repeated coolly.
"I don't know. You are certainly an interesting companion. Maybe I'll
take you to New York with me. You see I'm beginning to like you."
She was silent.
He said: "I never before met a real spy. I scarcely believed they existed in
time of peace, except in novels. Really, I never imagined there were
any spies working for embassies, except in Europe. You are, to me,
such a rare specimen," he added gaily, "that I rather dread parting
with you. Won't you come to Paris with me?"
"Does what you say amuse you?"
"What you say does. Yes, I think I'll take you to New York, anyway.
And as we journey toward that great metropolis together you shall tell
me all about your delightful profession. You shall be a Scheherazade
to me! Is it a bargain?"
She said in a pleasant, even voice: "I might as well tell you now that what you've been stupid enough to
do tonight is going to cost you your life."
"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.
"I am an artist," he said.
"You have an excellent opinion of yourself."
"No. I'm telling you the truth. My name is Neeland--James Neeland. I
draw little pictures for a living--nice little pictures for newspapers
and magazines."