"It isn't that," she said. "You know I do, Eric. But this is something perfectly terrible."
"Oh, I say, Jane, you haven't changed your mind about—about—"
"As if I could," she cried. "I love you more than ever, Eric. Oh, what a silly thing to say over the telephone. I am blushing,—I hope no one heard—"
"Listen!" said he promptly, music in his voice. "I'm just in from the country. I'll be down to see you about five this afternoon. Tell you all about the trip. Lived like a lord,—homelike sort of feeling, eh?—and—"
"I don't care to hear about it," said Jane stiffly. "Besides, you must not come here today, Eric. It is the very worst thing you could do. He would be sure to see you."
"He? What he?" he demanded quickly.
"I can't explain. Listen, dear. Mrs. Sparflight and I have talked it all over and we've decided on the best thing to do."
And she poured into the puzzled young man's ear the result of prolonged deliberations. He was to go to Bramble's Bookshop at half-past four, and proceed at once to the workshop of M. Mirabeau upstairs. She had explained the situation to Mr. Bramble in a letter. At five o'clock she would join him there. In the meantime, he was to keep off of the downtown streets as much as possible.
"In the name of heaven, what's up?" he cried for the third time,—with variations.
"A—a detective from Scotland Yard," she replied in a voice so low and cautious that he barely caught
