"A friend!" tardily echoed the girl when the servant was gone. He laughed lightly, determined to be frank. "A detective, in point of fact," said he. And enjoyed her surprise. "You have many such?" "For convenience one tries to have one in each city." "And this----?" "Oh, I have him fixed, all right. He confided to me all the latest developments and official intentions with regard to the Maitland arrest." Her eyes danced. "Tell me!" she demanded, imperious: the emphasis of intimacy irresistible as she bent forward, forearms on the cloth, slim white hands clasped with tense impatience, eyes seeking his. "Why ... of course Maitland escaped." "No!" "Fact. Scared the butler into ungagging him; then, in a fit of pardonable rage, knocked that fool down and dashed out of the window--presumably in pursuit of us. Up to a late hour he hadn't returned, and police opinion is divided as to whether Maitland arrested Anisty, and Anisty got away, or _vice versa_." "Excellent!" She clasped her hands noiselessly, a gay little gesture. "So, whatever the outcome, one thing is certain: Higgins will presently be seeking another berth." She lifted her brows prettily. "Higgins?"--with the rising inflection. "The butler. Didn't you hear----?" Eyes wondering, she moved her head slowly from side to side. "Hear what?" "I fancied that you had waited a moment on the veranda," he finessed. "Oh, I was quite too frightened...." He took this for a complete denial. Better and better! He had actually feared that she had eaves-dropped, however warrantably; and Maitland's authoritative way with the servants had been too convincingly natural to have deceived a woman of her keen wits. There followed a lull while Anisty was ordering the luncheon: something he did elaborately and with success, telling himself humorously: "Hang the expense! Maitland pays." Of which fact the weight in his pocket was assurance. Maitland.... Anisty's thoughts verged off upon an interesting tangent. What was Maitland's motive in arranging this meeting? It was self-evident that the twain were of one world--the girl and the man of fashion. But, whatever her right of heritage, she had renounced it, declassing herself by yielding to thievish instincts, voluntarily placing herself on the level of Anisty. Where she must remain, for ever. There was comfort in that reflection. He glanced up to find her eyes bent in gravity upon him. She, too, it appeared, had fallen a prey to reverie. Upon what subject? An absorbing one, doubtless, since it held her abstracted despite her companion's direct, unequivocally admiring stare.