She threw me a smiling glance of inquiry.
“It is a big favor,” I warned her. “And this is it: Will you promise to tell me before you go there again for any more of that wonderful tea?”
Natalie looked at me in wonder. “How funny you are to-day,” she said at last. “Don’t you like Mrs. Fawcette or Ivanovitch?”
“Not very much, I confess. But I like the idea of that drugged tea even less, Natalie. Promise, please!”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to go and dress, you importunate man,” she laughed, “so—I’ll promise. Though I haven’t the slightest idea why I should.”
At all events, I went down her aunt’s front steps treading on something much less substantial.
Chapter VIII.
Amateur Burglary
Next morning, which was Thursday, at breakfast, Larry smashed a cup and saucer, burned his hand and almost established a reputation for nerves.
He was giving me my breakfast at the time and had a cup of hot coffee in his hand. My question was mild enough, too.
“Larry,” I asked him, “where could I buy a kit of burglar’s tools?”