resolved to enjoy its privileges. Now, she does what she chooses."
"In other words, she is a lady with no reputation to lose?"
Pickering seemed puzzled, and smiled a little. "Is n't that what you say of bad women?"
"Of some—of those who are found out."
"Well," he said, still smiling, "I have n't yet found out Madame Blumenthal."
"If that's her name, I suppose she's German."
"Yes; but she speaks English so well that you might almost doubt it. She is very clever. Her husband's dead."
I laughed, involuntarily, at the conjunction of these facts, and Pickering's clear glance seemed to question my mirth. "You have been so bluntly frank with me," I said, "that I too must be frank. Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blumenthal, whose husband is dead, has given an edge to your desire for a suspension of communication with Smyrna."
He seemed to ponder my question, unshrinkingly. "I think not," he said, at last. "I've had the desire for three months; I 've known Madame Blumenthal for less than twenty-four hours."
"Very true. But when you found this letter of yours on your plate at breakfast, did you seem for a moment to see Madame Blumenthal sitting opposite?"
