THE BRASS BOWL
"I think," Anisty's clear-cut tones, incisive as a razor edge, crossed the listless trend of her thoughts: "I think we will now get down to business, my lady!"
She lifted her lashes, meeting his masterful stare with a look of calm inquiry. "Well?"
"So you're better now? … Possibly it was a mistake to give you that rest, my lady. Still, when one's a gentleman-cracksman!" He chuckled unpleasantly, not troubling to finish his sentence.
"Well?" he mocked, seating himself easily upon an adjacent table. "We're here at last, where we'll suffer no interruptions to our little council of war. Beyond the watchman, there's probably not another soul in the building; and from that window there it is a straight drop of twenty-four stories to Broadway, while I'm between you and the door. So you may be resigned to stay here until I get ready to let you go. If you scream for help, no one will hear you."
"Very well," she assented mechanically, turning
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