out on tour next month in 'The Girl From Brighton.'
What do you do, Mr. Rice ?"
Henry paused for a moment before replying. He knew how sensational he was going to be.
"I'm a detective."
Usually, when he told girls his profession, squeaks of amazed admiration greeted him. Now he was chagrined to perceive in the brown eyes that met his distinct disapproval.
"What's the matter?" he said, a little anxiously, for even at this early stage in their acquaintance he was conscious of a strong desire to win her approval. "Don't you like detectives?"
"I don't know. Somehow I shouldn't have thought you were one."
This restored Henry's equanimity somewhat. Naturally a detective does not want to look like a detective, and give the whole thing away right at the start.
"I think — you won't be offended?"
"Go on."
"I've always looked on it as rather a sneaky job."
"Sneaky!" moaned Henry.
"Well, creeping about, spying on people."
Henry was appalled. She had defined his own trade to a nicety. There might be detectives whose work was above this reproach, but he was a confirmed creeper, and he knew it. It wasn't his fault. The boss told him to creep, and he crept. If he declined to creep, he would be sacked instanter. It was hard, and yet he felt the sting of her words, and in his bosom the first seeds of dissatisfaction with his occupation took root.
You might have thought that this frankness on the girl's part would have kept Henry from falling in love with her. Certainly the dignified thing would have been to change his seat at table, and take his meals next to some one who appreciated the romance of detective work a little more. But no, he remained where he was, and presently Cupid, who never shoots with a surer aim than through the steam of boarding-house hash, sniped him where he sat.
