"No. Charles François, of Scotland Yard."
Eliza fled, completely cowed. She began to weep, in noisy gulps.
"I've dud-dud-done it!" she explained to agitated curl papers. "That pup-pup-pore Mr. Trenholme. They've cuc-cuc-come for him. He'll be lul-lul-locked up, an' all along o' my wu-wu-wicked tongue!"
CHAPTER VII
Some Side Issues
Trenholme, rather interested than otherwise, did not blanch at mention of Scotland Yard.
"Walk right in, Mr. Furneaux," he said; he had picked up a few tricks of speech from Transatlantic brethren of the brush met at Julien's. "Have you lunched?"
"Excellently," was the reply.