Exit a Dictator by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Nicolas Grodin, dining tête-á-tête with his wife that evening, had eaten too much. He had also drunk too much and the result was not a pleasant one. Olga, when the obsequious maitre d'hôtel and his deft myrmidons had wheeled away the serving table and cleared the sideboard of its impedimenta, felt her courage waver at the task before her, and yet--more terrible still was the thought of that cold-eyed, cold-tongued young woman who had spoken so calmly of death and many other ugly matters. She lit a cigarette and looked across at her husband pensively. It was on an occasion something like this that he had unlocked the coffer which he carried always with him and had given her at last the desire of her life--the emeralds stolen from the Crown Jewels. If anything, she knew that she had grown in attraction, even in his eyes, since those days. She had become the most desired woman in the secret circles of Russia. She had been, as a matter of fact, glad to escape for a while from the turbulent passions she had inspired in some of those men who had so little to offer. If she made no false step, she told herself, failure would be impossible. She turned to the maitre d'hôtel.

"We will take our coffee a little nearer to the fire," she told him, "On the divan there. Draw up a small table, please. Monsieur will take his brandy there. Be sure that it is in a large glass, first frozen and then warmed gently. I myself shall drink Kummel."