“Oh, Mr. Mullins,” exclaimed his companion delightedly, “it’s a positive pleasure to crack a crib with you. You think of everything.” Mr. Priestley, who was also of the opinion that his strategy was not too short-sighted, blushed modestly. It was on the tip of his tongue to reveal the fact that he was not Mr. Mullins at all, but a private citizen of hitherto unblemished reputation, but foreseeing embarrassing queries as to the exact identity of the hitherto blameless citizen, he chose the path of prudence. Mr. Priestley had always been jealous of his good name, and it looked as if he would need in the near future all the jealousy he could muster. “And you don’t look like a burglar a bit,” continued the girl warmly. “No wonder they call you Gentleman Joe. I must get you to tell me some time about that time when you stole the Countess of Kentisbeare’s diamonds, disguised as a dumb waiter, and knocked out two policeman and the butler. Ah, yes, you see I know all about you. These things get round the underworld. By the way, do you work on cocaine or morphia? Personally I always use strychnine; a little strychnine in half a tumbler of soda makes me feel capable of anything. That’s how I escaped from Sing-sing, as you’ve probably heard.” “Erh’rrrrrm!” coughed Mr. Priestley, somewhat uneasy at the technical turn of the conversation; he did not feel yet quite up to a professional chat with this nefarious young woman. “Yes, yes, of course. Now what about moving on? How are we going to dispose ourselves?” “Well, if you don’t want to kneel on the floor,” said the nefarious young woman regretfully, “I’m very much afraid you’ll have to stay where you are. I’ve been thinking, and I really can’t see any other way.” “Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, without joy. He brightened as an idea occurred to him—a wicked idea, quite in keeping with all his other devilry. He spoke in an exceedingly airy way. “How would it do,” said Mr. Priestley very airily, “if I sat where you’re sitting, and you sat—er—on my knee?” “I’d love to sit on your knee, Mr. Mullins,” said the young woman frankly. “It would be great fun. But unfortunately I couldn’t drive the car at the same time, you see; I couldn’t reach either the pedals or the gears. Besides, it is rather a whole-time occupation, isn’t it? Which do you think is the more important?” From the slightly mocking tone in her voice Mr. Priestley understood that his wickedness had been unmasked. “Yes—er—quite so. Then perhaps we had better go on as we are. But this time,” he added in heartfelt tones, “please don’t drive quite so fast.” They went on, at a pace round but reasonable. This time rational converse was more possible. “Where are we going?” asked Laura, who had been taking a mild pleasure during the last three miles in changing her gears as often as possible, causing Mr. Priestley each time to dive hurriedly over the side of the car as if trying to catch crabs in a pool.