"If I were a sentimental sort of girl," she declared, "I could take a fancy to you, Mr. Crawshay."
"Now you're laughing at me," he protested. "However, I'm going right on with it and then we will dismiss all serious subjects. Miss Beverley has certainly quit herself of any obligation to Jocelyn Thew. Richard Beverley is no longer free. Besides, he has only a couple of days in England, so there's very little chance of his being of use. Yet," he continued impressively, "I happen to know that every hour just now is of the greatest importance to Jocelyn Thew. Why does he spend another entire evening with these two?"
"Say, which of us is the detective—you or me?" she demanded.
"Professionally, I suppose I am," he admitted. "Just now, however, I consider myself as indulging in the relaxation of private life."
She leaned across the table towards him, her chin supported by her clenched hands.
"Then relax all you want to," she begged, with a smile of invitation.
"We'll drop the other stunt, if you don't mind. And please remember, though
I've never enjoyed a dinner more in my life, that we don't want to be too
late for the Empire."
Crawshay returned to his rooms about one o'clock the next morning, with his hat a little on the back of his head, and wearing, very much against his prejudice, a white rose in his buttonhole. Brightman, who was awaiting him there, looked up eagerly at his entrance.
"Any luck, Mr. Crawshay?"
Crawshay laid his hat and coat upon the table and mixed himself a whisky and soda.
"I am not sure," he replied thoughtfully. "Are you any good at English history, Brightman?"