He craved a cigarette. Careful not to disturb Betsy, he lifted the covers on his side of the bed, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and quietly set his feet on the hardwood floor. Gooseflesh covered his naked body. Sir Henry glanced toward the window. The sash had been left up a few inches, admitting the chilly night air. Pale moonlight streamed through half-opened shutters, lighting a small corner of the room. Forgetting about his smoke, he walked toward the other end of the bedroom, intending to lower the sash. As he neared the window he thought he heard the faint murmuring of voices coming from the garden below. Looking out through the pane he saw a flash of light coming from behind a stand of acacias. Is it a lantern? Could it be the police?

He considered the possibility with fatalistic calm.

A pair of gendarmes, watching from behind the trees, glimpsed Sir Henry at the window. One leaned over and whispered to his comrade, “So he’s up and about, eh? Look, he’s closing the window and shutters. It must be getting cold up there.”

“He’s cold? At least the bastard’s got something nice to keep him warm in bed,” the other answered with a smirk.

Sir Henry glanced back at the sleeping woman. I suppose I ought to have stayed in Paris or, better yet, quit the country. But these last two days have made it worthwhile. She’s an extraordinary woman. Father always said I’d come to a sticky end. At any rate, a short exciting life’s better than one that’s long and dull. I’m not afraid to die, but I prefer to choose the time, place, and manner of departure.

Within the span of two short weeks, fate had entered his world in the form of two women, altering the course of his life forever. Virginie came first. She had agreed to a radical operation, to be performed in secret. There was a social stigma attached to a hysterectomy; she would submit to the surgery only under conditions of strict confidentiality. Using an assumed name, Henry rented a small apartment in Montmartre. He scrubbed and disinfected the place scrupulously and brought in several kerosene lamps and a reflecting mirror so he could operate in the pre-dawn darkness.

In the early morning on October 11, Virginie left a note for her concierge. She would be out of town on business for three days, returning on the 14th, providing adequate time for recovery before returning to her flat.

Henry operated brilliantly. The procedure was a complete success and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his new technique for vaginal hysterectomy had preceded the great Péan by three days. Respecting his patient’s need for privacy, he felt honor bound never to reveal his surgical triumph. But he didn’t mind the constraints of secrecy; knowing that he had succeeded where others had failed was sufficient compensation. Then Betsy Endicott entered the scene.

On the day he had planned to take Virginie back to her flat, he was shocked to find Betsy, disguised as a man, standing at the bedside. She told him a story he never really believed. Betsy had hired Jojo to locate Virginie. She wanted to bribe the girl to keep her away from Marcia, and she used a disguise to avoid scandal. When she arrived at the flat she found Virginie sound asleep. Betsy noticed a bottle of morphine and hypodermic kit on the bedside table and assumed the girl was heavily sedated. She was about to leave when Henry returned from witnessing the operation at Péan’s clinic. Henry examined Virginie immediately. She was dead, apparently from a fatal overdose.

Did he inadvertently administer the overdose earlier that day, or did Betsy intervene with malicious intent? He would never know for certain. Regardless, the operation had been a success but the patient was dead. Under the circumstances, he feared a scandal that would ruin his career. But worse than the charge of medical malpractice was the possibility of criminal charges, up to and including murder. Betsy offered him a way out of his dilemma. Jojo would dispose of the body; they could frame up someone else for the crime. She had it all worked out beautifully. And there were added incentives for going along with her scheme. There was Betsy, marriage, and a share in her fortune.

Sir Henry kept staring at Betsy as she slept peacefully in their bed. He smiled resignedly and shook his head. The goddess of fortune’s a capricious whore, he thought.

He remembered the story Betsy had told him about the two Barbary Coast thugs she had shot in self defense. Is the revolver in her handbag? Sir Henry crept noiselessly to the chair where she had left her things. He opened her purse and felt for the weapon. Immediately recognizing the smooth ivory grip, the cool nickel-plated cylinder, barrel, and frame, he removed the revolver. The gun and Betsy could be my ticket out of here, he thought.

He dressed quickly, then struck a match and lit a candle on the dresser. In the dim golden light he opened the revolver to check the cylinder. Fully loaded, just as I expected; she’s a smart girl to be prepared. Smiling at the sight of five brass cartridges, he closed the top-break revolver with a loud metallic snap.

Betsy moaned and stirred under the sheets. Sir Henry walked to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and gently placed his left hand over her mouth while the right gripped the Smith & Wesson. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide; the sharp gray eyes stared at him questioningly.

“Hush darling,” he whispered. “We’re in a bit of a tight corner, I’m afraid. We’ll have to leave at once.”

Her eyes glared at him, and she noticed the gun. He withdrew his hand and she hissed, “What the devil’s going on?”

Her petulance excited him. For an instant he wondered if he could have her once more before they left. He shook his head. “Sorry, my dear; I’m afraid the police have us surrounded. My guess is they picked up Jojo and made him talk.” He got up from the mattress and pointed the pistol at her. “Please get dressed now, and make as little noise as possible.”

Glaring at him, she whipped away the covers angrily, flashing a full view of her naked body. The sight of her firm, rosy-nippled breasts, flat stomach, round hips, long legs, and brown-tufted mons Veneris glowing with perspiration, coupled with the looming specter of violent death, aroused and stimulated his senses like an intra-venous injection of cocaine.

He leered at her as she slid off the bed and slinked to the chair by the dresser. She slithered into her Victorian outer layer of linen, lace, and silk, slowly and suggestively, while her smoldering eyes fixed on his. Betsy’s erotic movements and gestures were a calculated distraction. Thrilled by her performance, Sir Henry failed to notice as she palmed the hidden Derringer from its garter holster, executing this feat with all the deceptive skill of a magician or a Barbary Coast gambler dealing seconds.

As she finished dressing, he walked to the window, intermittently glancing back to keep an eye on her. He peered through the closed pane and the shutter slats. A couple of pinpoints of light glimmered behind the acacias. They’re out there, all right. I’ve always thought the police were an assortment of unimaginative plodders and dimwitted thugs, but apparently the French have a clever detective.

He turned toward Betsy and saw her standing with the Derringer aimed at him. She had stealthily advanced a few paces while his back was turned, to close the range and make sure of her shot.

He smiled with admiration. She is indeed extraordinary. I’ll never find another like her. “Well my dear,” he said, “I believe this is what your American dime novels call a standoff.”