"The girl with the Madonna face? No; you're right there. But the Managers will find a short way with her; she'll go."
"She turns out to be the daughter of an old friend of mine, Marvin of Warwick, the second-hand bookseller."
"Marvin? Jeremiah Marvin? Why, I must have received his catalogues by the score."
"Jeremy," his friend corrected him. "He was christened Jeremiah, to be sure, and told me once it was the handiest name on earth, and could be made to express anything, 'from the lugubrious, sir, to the rollicking. In my young days, sir,'—for he had been a soldier in his time—'I was Corporal Jerry. Corporal Jerry Marvin! How's that for a name? Jeremiah I hold in reserve against the blows of destiny or promotion to a better world. But Jeremy, sir, as I think you'll allow, is the only wear for a second-hand bookseller.' A whimsical fellow!"
"He is dead, then?"
"Yes, he died a few weeks since; and poorly-off, I'm afraid. He had a habit of reading the books he vended. Look here, George,"—the Inspector halted in the middle of the roadway—"I want you to do me a favour, or rather, to promise one."
"What is it?"
"I want you to promise that, if these fellows get rid of Miss Marvin, you will see that she suffers no harsh treatment from them. I can find her another post, no doubt; but there may be an interval in which you can help."
"Very well," Sir George answered, after a pause. "I can manage that.
But they'll eject her, you may bet."