“I have no father. I have only my aunt.”
“Winifred,” said Carshaw solemnly, “will you consider me your friend from this night?”
“You are kind. I trust you,” she murmured.
“A friend is a person who acts for another with the same zeal as for himself, and who has the privilege of doing whatever seems good to him for that other. Am I to regard myself as thus privileged?”
Winifred, who had never flirted with any young man in her life, fancied she knew nothing about the rules of the game. She was confused. She veiled her eyes.
“I don’t know—perhaps—we shall see,” she stammered. Which was not so bad for a novice.
They parted with a warm hand-shake. Ten minutes later Carshaw was in a telephone booth with Clancy’s ear at the other end of the wire.
“I have just had a chat with Miss Bartlett,” he began.
“Tut, tut! How passing strange!” cackled the detective. “The merest chance in the world, I’m sure.”
“Yes. The miracle came off, so you’re entitled to your gibe. But I have news for you. It’s about a dream and a face.”