A pace short of his desk he arrested his progress to acknowledge the visitor's presence with a little bow which achieved only one degree off the perpendicular, then continued to his chair, got deposited, glanced at the vase of cattleyas and the morning mail under the weight, put his thumb to the button to summon beer, leaned back and adjusted himself, and sighed. The visitor, with the magazine closed on her lap, was gazing at him through long, lowered lashes.

Wolfe said abruptly and crisply, "Lovchen? That is not your name. It is no one's name."

Her lashes fluttered. "My name," she said with a half-smile, "is what I say it is. Would you call it a convenience? Not to irritate the Americans with a name like Kraljevitch?"

"Is that yours?"

"No."

"No matter." Wolfe sounded testy-as far as I could see, for no reason. "You came to see me?"

Her lips parted for a soft little laugh. "You sound like a Tsernagore," she declared. "Or a Montenegrin if you prefer it, as the Americans do. You don't look like one, since Tsernagores grow up and up, not out and all around like you. But when you talk I feel at home. That's exactly how a Tsernagore speaks to a girl. Is it what you eat?"

I turned my head to enjoy a grin. Wolfe demanded, almost bellowing at her, "What can I do for you, Miss Lovchen?"

"Oh yes." Her eyes showed the worry again. "I was forgetting on account of seeing you. You are a famous man, I know that, of course, but you don't look famous. You look more like-" She stopped, made a little circle with her lips, and went on, "Anyway, you're famous, and you have been in Montenegro. You see, I know much about you. Hvala Bogu. Because I want to engage you on account of some trouble."