“I want you to remember that I’m a man,” he retorted, “besides being a reporter. And that you and I are going to be friends.” He looked her fairly in the eyes. “At least,” he added quietly. The baffling lights in her eyes deepened as she met his gaze, unwaveringly. “I believe that we are--at least,” she said. “When shall we begin?” “We _have_ begun.” “The golf, I mean.” “To-morrow.” She laughed outright. “You lose no time.” “I don’t know that I have any to lose. I don’t know how long you’re to be here.” “Nor do I,” she answered with a sudden gravity. “Very well; to-morrow. I will meet you at the club house at 5.45. Oh! I forgot. My golf shoes are at Eli Wade’s. You remember; the ‘Boot & Shoe Surgeon’?” “I’ll get them this afternoon, and bring them with me.” “‘Lo, Miss Marcy!” The interruption, in a cheerful sing-song, came from behind Jeremy. He turned to face the small boy and the dog of his earlier encounter. “Good-morning, Buddy,” returned the girl. “I’ve come to weed the sparr’grass.” “Yes: we have been expecting you.” “I stopped by home to get you these.” He brought out a fistful of deep-hearted pansies, bound in a pink string. The girl took them, gave him a little, quick pat of the hand which he accepted with a flush of mingled adoration and embarrassment, and pinned them at her throat. “This is Mr. Burton Higman,” she said. “Mr. Jeremy Robson. To his friends, Jem, and Mr. Higman to his friends, Buddy.” Mr. Higman regarded Mr. Robson with a consideration in which there was more of suspicion than friendliness. “Where ’dje gittim?” he demanded of Miss Ames. “I did not get him. He came,” explained the girl. “Yep. I seen him before he got here. He was down on the corner, actin’ queer.” “Hold on, now, Buddy,” protested the other, looking pained. “Don’t take away a man’s character.” Miss Ames motioned him to silence, and turned an eye of lively anticipation upon the urchin. “What was he doing?” “Snake-turns. Walk down Nicklin Avenya; turn. Walk up to the corner; turn again. Stop at the corner; talk to a tree. Walk down Nicklin Avenya again; turn oncet more. Stand still. I watcht him.” “What did he do then?” asked the girl, enjoying the discomfiture of her caller. The narrator rubbed one foot over the other and considered. “Sweat,” he stated conscientiously. “Look at his collar.” Mr. Robson’s involuntary hand and Miss Ames’ involuntary gaze met upon the article of apparel indicated. It melted under the double pressure. “Walked back up to Montgomery Street,” continued the conscientious chronicler en joyably. “Stopped. Cussed the tree. Sweat some more. Turned down Bank--” “That will do, Buddy. You should be a detective.” Mr. Burton Higman blushed in glory. The girl turned to the accused. “Is all this true?” “Guilty as charged.” “Any mitigating circumstances?” “I was screwing up my courage to face an ordeal.” “What’s an ordeal?” demanded the watchful Mr. Higman. “I am,” replied Miss Ames.