She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father mystified me considerably by remarking:
"You're late to-night, chick. Have the Shepherd Kings been giving trouble?"
"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well get them done. So I dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished them."
"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"
"Yes." As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and laughed softly.
"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, "before Doctor Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is referring to my work," she explained to me.
"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.
She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke into a ripple of quiet laughter.
"I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions. He will have to atone by explaining."
"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is a literary searcher—"