"Is the answer to that question germane to your investigation?" she shot back. Smalley shrugged, grinned. "Sure, it's germane." "I don't see how." "Can't you simply give me a straight answer?" "Yes, certainly." "Can I assume, then, that he is not a blood relative?" "You may assume whatever you like, Mr. Smalley. I am obviously not in control of your assumptions." She smiled. It was comely and confrontational at the same time. Smalley's grin became a smirk. "I should tell you that your responses reveal more than you might believe." "I doubt, Mr. Smalley, that I am so open a book that you can say from one moment to the next what I might or might not believe." She was still smiling. She had a cup of tea in front of her on a coffee table. She picked it up, brought it to her lips, tipped it very slightly—not enough, Smalley guessed, to drink—then put the cup down. He was seated opposite her on the uncomfortable Queen Anne settee.
