"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His face was red with anger.
"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes into a fallen sandal.
Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of disgust.
"Then a thousand, in gold," she coyly intimated. She twisted about to pull the strap of her bodice up over her white shoulder-blades. "Or I will kill him for you for two thousand pounds in gold!"
Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was in a world not his own.
"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some place to sit. There was not a chair in the room.
"Because he intends to kill you," answered the woman, squatting on the orange-covered divan.
"I wish he 'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted.
