"I'm engaged in his cure," she added.
"I have called," remarked Miss Macleod, perhaps deeming it wiser to ignore the young lady's candid allusion to her father's weakness, "with reference to an advertisement about some apostle spoons."
Miss Vesey, still seated on the music-stool, clasped her hands behind her head.
"Oh, that's one of his swindles," she said.
"One of his swindles!" echoed Miss Macleod.
"He's agent for a Birmingham firm. He finds it a good dodge to put in advertisements like that. Each person who buys thinks she gets the only set he has to sell; but he sells dozens every week. It's drink has brought him to it. But I'm engaged in curing him all round. The worst of it is that when I begin to cure him, he runs away. He was just going to run away when you came to the gate."
"If what you say is correct," said Miss Macleod grimly, "I should say the case was incurable--save by the police."
"Ah, that's because you don't understand my means of cure: I'm a magician."
"A magician!"
There was a pause. Miss Macleod eyed Miss Vesey keenly, Miss Vesey returning the compliment by eyeing her.