She sat for a silent and studious moment or two, without looking at
Copeland. Then she sighed, with mock plaintiveness. Her wistfulness
seemed to leave her doubly dangerous.

"Mr. Copeland, are n't you afraid some one might find it worth while to
tip Blake off?" she softly inquired.

"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation.

She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly.

"What is your idea of me?" she asked.

He looked back at the thick-lashed eyes with their iris rings of deep
gray. There was something alert and yet unparticipating in their
steady gaze. They held no trace of abashment. They were no longer
veiled. There was even something disconcerting in their lucid and
level stare.

"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed.

"I think I am, too," she retorted. "Although I have n't used that
intelligence in the right way. Don't smile! I 'm not going to turn
mawkish. I 'm not good. I don't know whether I want to be. But I
know one thing: I 've got to keep busy--I 've got to be active. I 've
_got_ to be!"

"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop.

"We all know, now, exactly where we 're at. We all know what we want,