"But you have lunched already!" with an appealing pout.
"Indeed, no!" he protested earnestly. "I was early—conceive my eagerness!—and by ill chance a friend of mine insisted upon lunching with me. I had only a cup of coffee and a roll." He motioned to the waiter, calling him "Waiter!" rather than "Garçon!"——intuitively understanding that Maitland would never have aired his French in a public place, and that he could not afford the least slip before a woman as keen as this.
"Lay a clean cloth and bring the bill of fare," he demanded, tempering his lordly instincts and adding the "please" that men of Maitland's stamp use to inferiors.
"A friend!" tardily echoed the girl when the servant was gone.
He laughed lightly, determined to be frank. "A detective, in point of fact," said he. And enjoyed her surprise.
"You have many such?"
"For convenience one tries to have one in each city."
"And this——?"
"Oh, I have him fixed, all right. He confided to me all the latest developments and official intentions with regard to the Maitland arrest."
Her eyes danced. "Tell me!" she demanded, imperious: the emphasis of intimacy irresistible as she bent forward, forearms on the cloth, slim white hands clasped with tense impatience, eyes seeking his.