She is a demure little creature, with wits as bright as her eyes, which is saying a great deal; and while, in the course of our long friendship, I had admired without making use of the special abilities I saw in her, I felt that the time had now come when they might prove of inestimable value to me.
Greeting her with pardonable abruptness, I expressed my wishes in these possibly alarming words:
“Jinny, you can do something for me. Find out—I know you can, and that, too, without arousing suspicion or compromising either of us—where Mr. Moore, of Waverley Avenue, buys his groceries, and when you have done that, whether or not he has lately resupplied himself with candles.”
The surprise which she showed had a touch of naivete in it which was very encouraging.
“Mr. Moore?” she cried, “the uncle of her who—who—”
“The very same,” I responded, and waited for her questions without adding a single word in way of explanation.
She gave me a look—oh, what a look! It was as encouraging to the detective as it was welcome to the lover; after which she nodded, once in doubt, once in question and once in frank and laughing consent, and darted off.
I thanked Providence for such a self-contained little aide-de-camp and proceeded on my way, in a state of great self-satisfaction.
An hour later I came upon her again. It is really extraordinary how frequently the paths of some people cross.
“Well?” I asked.