"And Billy Potter says: 'He ain't dead; you can't kill that kind with a blast o' dynamite. I guess these here's your tiary, lady.' Ted's going to have it all done up in a package in his inside pocket. He says he's going to keep the things in his clothes the whole time. There are so many servants around, and the carpenters to fix the scenery, and the caterer's men—you can't be too careful. 'Twouldn't do to leave a five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace lying around loose; everybody in town knows about that necklace, I guess."
"Do you suppose Mr. Potter really looks at all like a detective?"
J. B. laughed. "No. He cocks his hat over one eye, and acts that tough way, just to give the part a kind of snap—a little go, you know. But the only detective I ever knew was a very quiet, gentlemanly sort of fellow. We had a little trouble at the bank once, and had this chap—his name was Judd—there for a couple of weeks, in plain clothes, you know. He didn't look like Vidocq either—not a bit. He looked like—like—well, a nice young fellow clerking in a shoe-store, say."
"Fancy!"
The music achieved its final chord; and the stairs promptly filled with resting couples. Mrs. Gates came out of the parlour with an armful of gilt shepherds' crooks and wreaths of tissue-paper roses. She looked up at the long slant of young people, nodding and signalling; and went back to speak to the musicians. The "juhman" was about to begin.
"I do think it's too funny for any use," said Kitty Oldham across her late partner to the nearest girl, "the way Britannia throws herself at somebody's head. Simply monopolises him the whole time."
"Oh, they were just sitting out one dance," said the man with her, displaying an unexpected acuteness. "Never mind looking at me that way, Miss Kitty. I know whom you were talking about. J. B. just didn't want to dance it, I guess."
"No wonder. Self-preservation's the first law of nature," said Kitty with undaunted pertness.
"Funny they don't teach 'em to dance, on the other side, isn't it?"
"Oh, she thinks she's dancing," said Kitty, lazily scornful. "It's a delusion they all have, I suppose. J. B.'s the only man around big enough for her—except Gwynne, and he's tall, but he's too slim. He's dropped out of the play—did you know?"