"I'll go over to Burwain."
"After that girl?"
I scratched my chin and eyed him severely. "See here, I'm not quite the infant you take me to be. Miss Monk's face attracted me, I admit, but that doesn't mean I am in love with her."
"You talked enough about her anyhow."
"All the more reason that you shouldn't talk," I retorted. "I can say all I want to say for myself. Do stop rotting."
Cannington nodded with an air of resignation. "I shan't say another word, Vance. Didn't think you were in earnest."
"I am in earnest about searching out this mystery, if that is what you mean, and I go over to Burwain to-morrow to make a start."
"With Miss Monk?"
"Yes," I replied, feeling qualmish. "She was Mrs. Caldershaw's nursling, and may be able to throw some light on that glass eye. I feel convinced that therein lies the solution of the mystery."
"The worst of you literary men," said Cannington, addressing the ceiling, "is that you talk too much like a book. Touched wood! touched wood!" He fled for the door, as I swung up a chair cushion. "Don't disarrange my hair, but come along to luncheon."