"Miss Evans," says Buchel, with a honey-sweet chuckle. "If you don't mind me askin', why isn't your husband handling these affairs for you?"

"My husband's a busy man, Mr. Buchel — "

"Otto, please."

She smiles sweetly, gathering up her skirts and rising from her seat. That's not the question Mr. Buchel's asking. He's asking why she's here, alone and unescorted. Coughing against one leather-backed hand, she dips her fingers under her sleeve to retrieve her lace kerchief, closing the distance between them.

"I think you'll find my husband married a very capable woman."

The banker's smile is short-lived. As the commotion from outside his office rises, he too jumps to his feet.

"What in tarnation — ?"

There's a very distinct click, and Otto Buchel, who had been moving toward the doorway, stops in his tracks. Lace flutters to the floor; gripped in Kate's gloved hand is her Smith & Wesson, which is making itself quite familiar with the small of Otto's back. With slow movements, Kate comes in close, her painted lips brushing his ear.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna hafta ask you t'stay where you are."