"Gracious!" she cried in dismay.
"It sounds a monumental business, but I think you will find it simple. The Agricultural Department of the United States Government, for instance, tabulate all those facts. For example, they compel farmers in certain districts to keep a clear space between each lot so that in case of the crops being fired, the fire may be isolated. Canada, the Argentine and Australia have other methods."
She had seated herself at the desk and was jotting down a note of her duties.
"Anything more?" she asked.
"Yes—I want the names of the towns in the centre of the wheat-growing areas, a list of the hotels in those towns. The guide-books you will find up to date, and these will inform you on this subject. Particularly do I want hotels noted where automobiles can be hired, the address of the local bank and the name of the manager and, where the information is available, the name of the chief constable, sheriff or chef d'gendarmerie in each district."
She looked up at him, her pencil poised.
"Are you serious—of course, I'll do all this, but somehow it reminds me of a story I once read——"
"I know it," said Beale promptly, "it is 'The Case of the Red-Haired Man,' one of Doyle's stories about a man who, to keep him away from his shop, was employed on the useless task of copying the Encyclopædia Britannica—no, I am asking you to do serious work, Miss Cresswell—work which I do not want spoken about."
He sat on the edge of the table, looking down at her, and if his eyes were smiling it was because that was their natural expression. She had never seen them when they did not hold the ghost of some joke inwardly enjoyed.
But her instinct told her that he was very much in earnest and that the task he had set her was one which had reason behind it.