But if her setting were luxurious, the woman outshone it tenfold with the dark splendour of her animal beauty.  As comely and as able-bodied as a young pantheress, she was (one judged) little less dangerous—­as vital, as self-centred, as deadly.  Sitting up in bed, openly careless of charms hardly concealed by nightwear of sheer silk lace and crepe de Chine, she looked P. Sybarite up and down with wide eyes overwise in the ways of life, shrewdly judicious of mankind; handled her pistol with experienced confidence; spoke, in a voice of surpassing sweetness, with decision and considerable overt contempt for the phraseology of convention—­swearing without the least affectation, slanging heartily when slang best suited her humour....

“Maybe you’re telling the truth, at that,” she announced suddenly, eyes coldly unprepossessed.  “You sound fishy as all-hell, and God knows you’re the sickest-looking cop I ever laid eyes on; but there are less unlikely things than that a second-story man should try this route for his getaway....  Well!” she demanded urgently—­“what’re you standing there for, like a stone man?”

“My dear lady—!” expostulated the dismayed P. Sybarite.

“Can the fond stuff and get busy.  What’re you going to do?”

“What am I—?  What—­ah—­do you wish me to do?”

“If you’re a cop, go to it—­cop somebody,” she replied with a brusque laugh—­“and then clear out.  I can use the room and time you’re occupying.  Besides, while you stand there staring as if you’d never seen a good-looking woman in a nightgown before, you’re slipping the said burglar a fine young chance to make the front door—­unless he’s under the bed.”

“Under the bed?” stammered the masquerader.

“You said something then,” the woman snapped.  “Why not look?”

Mechanically obedient to her suggestion, down P. Sybarite plumped on his knees, lifted the silken valance at the foot of the bed, and pretended to explore the darkness thereunder—­finding precisely what he had anticipated, that is to say, nothing.

While thus occupied (and badgering his addled wits to invent some plausible way to elude this Amazon) he was at once startled and still further dismayed to hear the bed-springs creak, a light double thump as two bare feet found the floor, and again the woman’s voice flavoured with acid sarcasm.

“You seem to find it interesting down there.  Is it the view?  Or are you trying to hypnotise your burglar by the well-known power of the human eye?”

“It’s pure and simple reverence for the proprieties,” P. Sybarite replied without stirring, “keeps me emulating the fatuous ostrich.  I don’t pretend it’s comfortable, but I, believe me, madam, am a plain man, of modest tastes, unaccustomed to—­”

“Get up!” the lady interrupted peremptorily.  “I guess your regard for the proprieties won’t suffer any more than my fair name.  Come out of that and hunt burglars like a good little cop.”