the words. "I—I can't say anything more now," she went on rapidly. "Something tells me he is just outside the door, listening to every word I utter."
"Wait!" he ordered. "A detective? Has that beastly Smith-Parvis crowd dared to insinuate that you—that you— Oh, Lord, I can't even say it!"
"I said 'Scotland Yard,' Eric," she said. "Don't you understand?"
"No, I'm hanged if I do. But don't worry, dear. I'll be at Bramble's and, by the lord Harry, if they're trying to put up any sort of a— Hello! Are you there?"
There was no answer.
Needless to say, he was at Bramble's Bookshop on the minute, vastly perturbed and eager for enlightenment.
"Don't stop down here an instant," commanded Mr. Bramble, glancing warily at the front door. "Do as I tell you. Don't ask questions. Go upstairs and wait,—and don't show yourself under any circumstance. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of him anywhere outside?"
"The street is full of 'hims,'" retorted Mr. Trotter in exasperation. "What the devil is all this about, Bramby?"
"She will be here at five. There's nothing suspicious in her coming in to buy a book. It's all been thought out. Most natural thing in the world that she should buy a book, don't you see? Only you must not be buying one at the same time. Now, run along,—lively. Prince de Bosky is with Mirabeau. And don't come down till I give you the word."
