in case of the crops being fired, the fire may be isolated. Canada, the Argentine and Australia have other methods."
She had seated herself at the desk and was jotting down a note of her duties.
"Anything more?" she asked.
"Yes—I want the names of the towns in the centre of the wheat-growing areas, a list of the hotels in those towns. The guide-books you will find up to date, and these will inform you on this subject. Particularly do I want hotels noted where automobiles can be hired, the address of the local bank and the name of the manager and, where the information is available, the name of the chief constable, sheriff or chef d'gendarmerie in each district."
She looked up at him, her pencil poised.
"Are you serious—of course, I'll do all this, but somehow it reminds me of a story I once read"
"I know it," said Beale promptly, "it is 'The Case of the Red-Haired Man,' one of Doyle's stories about a man who, to keep him away from his shop, was employed on the useless task of copying the 'Encyclopædia Britannica"—no, I am asking you to do serious work, Miss Cresswell—work which I do not want spoken about."
He sat on the edge of the table, looking down at her, and if his eyes were smiling it was because that was their natural expression. She had never seen them when they did not hold the ghost of some joke inwardly enjoyed.
But her instinct told her that he was very much in earnest and that the task he had set her was one which had reason behind it.
"Take the districts first and work up the hotels, et cetera," he suggested, "you will find it more interesting than a novel. Those little books," he pointed to the crowded shelf by the window, "will carry you to stations and ranches and farms all over the world. You shall be wafted through Manitoba, and cross the United States from New England to California. You will know Sydney and Melbourne and the great cornland at the back of beyond. And you'll sit in cool patios and sip iced drinks with Señor Don Perfecto de Cuba who has ridden in from
