ster type, I understand the workings of the male mind. What's up?"
"It's about Connie," he began; then broke off to say, "One of these days I'll buy you a comfortable chair. This one's got a back like a pew in a Quaker meetinghouse. However—you know yesterday was Connie's birthday?"
"Of course I know. Didn't I send her a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley? Lilies for purity. Well, what about it?"
"Perhaps you are also aware that she asked me to lunch at Claridge's. Before we'd been there ten minutes, who do you suppose came in and sat at a table almost next to ours?"
"Chiozzi?"
"Guess again."
"Noel, you know I hate these guessing games. Freeman? Oh, no, he's dead. It was some one to do with Connie, I suppose. Petrovitch, then?"
"No other. The dirty dog!"
"The plot thickens!" exclaimed Judy. "What happened then?"
"Connie saw him, and nearly swooned for joy. And then if you please, the great brute saw her and beckoned. Beckoned, do you hear? And she'd have gone to him if I'd let her."
"How beastly!"
