And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in.
She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the electric bulb, a
cigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons beside her.
She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and,
when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delighted
gravity he bent and saluted her finger tips with lips that twitched to
control a smile.
"Will you be seated, please?" she said gently.
The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as he looked around
for a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find a
seat on the lounge beside her.
"Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights," he
said gaily, "with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on
your divan----"
"Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?"
"No," he admitted; "that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, how
are you, dear lady?"
"Thank you, quite well."
"And--busy?" His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.
"Yes, I have been busy."
"Cooking something up?--I mean soup, of course," he added.
She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were difficult for her
to accustom herself to his half jesting sarcasms.
"So you've been busy," he resumed tormentingly, "but not with cooking
lessons! Perhaps you've been practising with your pretty little
pistol. You know you really need a bit of small arms practice,
Scheherazade."
"Because I once missed you?" she inquired serenely.
"Why so you did, didn't you?" he exclaimed, delighted to goad her into
replying.
"Yes," she said, "I missed you. I needn't have. I am really a dead
shot, Mr. Neeland."
"Oh, Scheherazade!" he protested.
She shrugged: "I am not bragging; I could have killed you. I supposed it was
necessary only to frighten you. It was my mistake and a bad one."
"My dear child," he expostulated, "you meant murder and you know it.
Do you suppose I believe that you know how to shoot?"
"But I do, Mr. Neeland," she returned with good-humoured indifference.
"My father was head jäger to Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I was
already a dead shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And when
he became an Athabasca trader, and I was only twelve years old, I
could set a moose-hide shoe-lace swinging and cut it in two with a
revolver at thirty yards. And I can drive a shingle nail at that
distance and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and the
next, until my revolver is empty. You don't believe me, do you?"