"Yes! It's part of your job, ain't it? Supposing it was a divorce I wanted, I should have to go to a lawyer, shouldn't I? I'm not imagining you hang about street corners yourself, but you've got to employ some one to have him watched, and you've got to begin this afternoon. I can give you a start all right from luncheon time. He'll bring me anywhere I say--Milan Grill-room, to-day, at two o'clock. We shall leave there, perhaps, at half-past three, and he'll drive me home. From that point he'll have to be watched. He may come in for an hour or he may not, but it's where he goes to afterwards that I want to know. Will you take this job on, Mr. Rodd?" "With pleasure," he agreed. "It's a little out of my line but I think I can arrange it." "Then that's that," the lady remarked, rising. "I've got to be at my dressmaker's at half-past. Ring me up when you've anything to report." Aaron Rodd bowed his client down the stairs, went back to his office and threw the windows wide open. Then he telephoned for the poet. "I am going to do a disgraceful thing," he told him, upon his arrival. "I'm going to betray a client's confidence." "Would it well out easier with the help of a matutinal?" the poet suggested, with a glance at the clock. "My throat's as dry as a lime-kiln this morning." Aaron shook his head and told the story. "Now get at it," he enjoined, as he bundled him out. "It's your job, not mine, and I have a letter to write...." The poet, a few days later, paid an afternoon call. He rang the bell of a flat in Northumberland Court, enquired for Mrs. Abrahams, and after a moment's hesitation was shown into a small drawing-room in which half a dozen people were seated. The lady who was evidently a hostess, a large, Jewish-looking woman, rose from her place on the couch and regarded him with mingled distrust and curiosity. The poet, however, who had seen Jack Lovejoy in a corner of the room, was not in the least abashed. "You haven't forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Abrahams?" he said, bending gallantly over her hesitating hand. "I met you at my aunt's, Lady Sittingley's, and you were kind enough to say that I might come and see you sometime. I ventured to bring you the small offering I promised you--my poems, bound now, I am thankful to say, with a little more dignity than when we last met." Mrs. Abrahams' face cleared slightly but she remained somewhat disturbed. "Of course! You are Mr. Cresswell, aren't you, the poet? I remember the curious stories there were about the beginning of your popularity. You have really brought me that book? How charming of you!" "I have promised myself this pleasure for a long time," Cresswell assured her. "Let me see," she went on, making room for him by her side, "when was it that I met you at your aunt's?" "I have no memory, even for such inspiring events," he confessed ingenuously, "but I think it was about three months ago." She sighed gently.