right hand, and so he nearly cut his face when he lifted his hat.
The result was to be expected. Once more the girl burst into laughter. But, at once, seeing that Hector was blushing and decidedly unhappy, she checked her mirth and held out an impulsive hand—to withdraw it immediately with the exclamation:
“Do put that knife away!”
Hector obeyed.
“Now then!” said the girl, and their hands met and clasped.
“It was bully of you,” she went on. “Perfectly, thrillingly bully. And the next time I persuade dad to roam with me at night through this part of London—I made him, you see. We only got here from home—which is New York—a day ago. Yes—the next time I take him for a night stroll I shall insist on having you as a bodyguard—you and that weapon of yours.”
“There won't be any next time,” said her father, unsmiling; and—by this time they had reached the corner of St. Katherine where, in the shadow of a doorway, the sandy-haired gentleman was hiding and listening—he introduced himself: Mr. Ezra W. Warburton.
“Not to forget Mr. Ezra W. Warburton's only child and daughter Jane!” chimed in the girl.
Hector fumbled for a card, found none, and was grateful for it a moment later. For, almost at once, he decided that he would not tell these people his right name—the name which carried shame and disgrace and social ostracism.
