"Burnett! Well, that's a coincidence! Burnett, by all that's wonderful! The very man!"
Burnett, the detective, came in with a twinkle. He sat down, and when he had refreshed himself at his host's invitation, he produced a letter from his pocket. "You're wanted, Leigh, seemin'ly," he remarked, with humor.
"I'm wanted, am I?" said Rankin, with a stare. "And who wants me?"
"No less a person than Squire Vanston, of Normansgrave, has written to me to trace you out."
"Well, I'm——" remarked Leigh, in amazement.
"Here's the letter, if you don't believe me. Got it yesterday. So I've come to ask—do you want to be traced or don't you?"
"No need, my dear friend," said Leigh, in an off-hand way. "I introduced myself this morning to Mr. Vanston's aunt, and to my own niece, who has lived with them ever since I had the pleasure of putting you on her track. If ever there was a confounded fool, it is you, Burnett, if you'll give me leave to pass the remark. I'm dining there Tuesday," he added, with nonchalance.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ESCAPE OF AUNT BEE
I should have cleaved to her who did not dwell
In splendor, was not hostess unto kings,
But lived contented among simple things,
And had a heart, and loved me long and well.
—WILLIAM WATSON.