mimicked her audaciously. "There are other things which intoxicate a man beside love and beer, Miss Cresswel."
"How gross!" she protested. "What are they?"
"Work, the chase, scientific research and the first spring scent of the hawthorn," he said solemnly. "As to the third question, why was I not around when you were nearly arrested? Well, I was around. I was in your flat when you came in and escaped along the fire parapet."
"Mr. Beale!" she gasped. "Then it was you—you are a detective!"
"I turned your desk and dressing-chest upside down? Yes, it was I," he said without shame, ignoring the latter part of the sentence. "I was looking for something."
"You were looking for something?" she repeated. "What were you looking for?"
"Three registered envelopes which were planted in your flat yesterday morning," he said, "and what's more I found 'em!"
She put her hand to her forehead in bewilderment.
"Then you"
"Saved you from a cold, cold prison cell. Have you had any lunch? Why, you're starving!"
"But"
"Bread and butter is what you want," said the practical Mr. Beale, "with a large crisp slice of chicken and stacks of various vegetables."
And he hustled her from the office.
CHAPTER VI
MR. SCOBBS OF RED HORSE VALLEY
MR. WHITE, managing director of Punsonby's Store, was a man of simple tastes. He had a horror of extravagance and it was his boast that he had never ridden
