“It isn’t a line. There are some very intricate property problems. They can’t be handled abruptly. You know that.”

She said, “I know that I’m tired of all this pretense. If you’re playing for keeps, make me a property settlement.”

“And have my wife’s lawyers drag me into court for another examination of my assets after they start tracing the checks? Don’t be silly.”

His eyes were somber in their steady appraisal. “I like you, Anita. I can do a lot for you. I like that fire that you have. But I want it in your heart and not in your tongue. My car’s in the parking lot. You go on down and wait. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

She said, “Why don’t you take me out as though you weren’t ashamed of me?”

“And give my wife the opportunity she’s looking for? Then you would have the fat in the fire. The property settlement will be signed within five or six weeks. After that I’ll be free to live my own life in my own way. Until then—until then, my darling, we have to be discreet in our indiscretions.”

She started to say something, checked herself, and stalked out of the apartment.

Carver Clements’s automobile was a big, luxurious sedan equipped with every convenience; but it was cold sitting there, waiting.

After ten minutes, which seemed twenty, Anita grew impatient. She flung open the car door, went to the entrance of the apartment house, and angrily pressed the button of 702.

When there was no answer, she knew that Clements must be on his way down, so she walked back out. But Clements didn’t appear.

Anita used her key to enter the apartment house. The elevator was on the ground floor. She made no attempt at concealment this time, but pressed the button for the seventh floor, left the elevator, strode down the corridor, stabbed her key into the metal lock of Clements’s apartment, and entered the room.

Carver L. Clements, dressed for the street, was lying sprawled on the floor.

A highball glass lay on its side, two feet from his body. It had apparently fallen from his hand, spilling its contents as it rolled along the carpet. Clements’s face was a peculiar hue, and there was a sharp, bitter odor which seemed intensified as she bent toward his froth-flecked lips. Since Anita had last seen him, he had quite evidently had a caller. The print of half-parted lips flared in gaudy crimson from the front of his bald head.

With the expertness she had learned from a course in first-aid, Anita pressed her finger against the wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none.

Quite evidently, Carver L. Clements, wealthy playboy, yachtsman, broker, gambler for high stakes, was dead.