The dowager Lady Breckenridge was near to thirty, with a sharp face, dark brown hair, and blue eyes like summer skies at dusk. I had met her the previous summer, in Kent, while I was investigating the affair of Colonel Westin. She'd played billiards with me, blown cigarillo smoke in my face, and told me that I was a fool. What irritated me most was that she'd been right.

"Good evening, my lady," I returned.

She looked at me a moment longer then shrugged at the figurine in her hand. "I could not resist. I hear that Mr. Grenville's collections are the best in England, but he shows them to so very few. Netsuke, I believe they are called. They’re very exotic, aren't they?"

The ivory figure in her hand was a ferocious-looking little beast; only three inches long, it had two rows of teeth and a curving tail. Lady Breckenridge reached to return it to its place, but the sleek ivory slipped from her hands and dropped to the floor. Fortunately, the figurine landed easily on the thick carpet and did not shatter.

Lady Breckenridge began to bend to retrieve it, but I crossed the room, bent down for her, and came up with the little creature in my hand.

"Always the gentleman," she said. She smiled at me, and I was surprised and a bit pleased to see that it was without rancor.

I set the figurine back on its shelf. Last year Lady Breckenridge had, by letting me go through her husband's papers, helped me discover who had committed several murders. She’d never betrayed sorrow for her now-deceased husband, and having met him, I could hardly blame her.

With any other lady, I would have had a stock of polite conversation ready to hand, and she would have a stock of polite responses. With Lady Breckenridge, such convention was useless. She would bat away any polite phrase with stinging wit and wait for more.

"Well, Captain," she said, breaking the silence. "I believe that you still owe me five guineas."