"What do you mean to do? Give me into custody? Call in the gendarmes
at the next station? Have me taken red-handed with the--stolen
property--the 'swag,' you know the word, perhaps, in my possession?"

"I am not a police officer; it's not my business," I answered gruffly.
I thought this flippancy very much misplaced.

"Or you might telegraph back to England, to London, to Scotland Yard:
'The woman Blair in the Engadine express. Wire along the line to
authorities, French and Swiss, to look out for her and arrest
preparatory to extradition.'"

"I would much rather not continue this conversation, Mrs. Blair."

"I am not 'Mrs. Blair,'" she cried, laughing merrily as at a
tremendous joke. "It is only one of my aliases. I am better known as
Slippery Sue, and the Countess of Plantagenet, and the Sly American,
and dashing Mrs. Mortimer, and--"

"Oh, please, please spare me. It does not matter, not a row of pins,
what you are called. I would rather not have the whole list," I
interrupted her, but could not check her restless tongue.

"You shall hear, you must know all about me and my famous exploits. I
was the heroine of that robbery at Buckingham Palace. I was at the
State Ball, and made a fine harvest of jewels. I have swept a dozen
country-houses clean; I have picked pockets and lifted old lace from
the shop counters, and embezzled and forged--"