“Belinda Mary,” she corrected. “Belinda Mary, I was going to say, or as a matter of fact,” he floundered, “I was going to say Belinda and Mary.” “You were going to say nothing of the kind,” she corrected him. “Anyway, I think Belinda Mary is a very pretty name.” “You think nothing of the sort.” She saw the laughter in his eyes and felt an insane desire to laugh. “You said it was a weird name and you think it is a weird name, but I really can't be bothered considering everybody's views. I think it's a weird name, too. I was named after an aunt,” she added in self-defence. “There you have the advantage of me,” he inclined his head politely; “I was named after my father's favourite dog.” “What does T. X. stand for?” she asked curiously. “Thomas Xavier,” he said, and she leant back in the big chair on the edge of which a few minutes before she had perched herself in trepidation and dissolved into a fit of immoderate laughter. “It is comic, isn't it?” he asked. “Oh, I am sorry I'm so rude,” she gasped. “Fancy being called Tommy Xavier--I mean Thomas Xavier.” “You may call me Tommy if you wish--most of my friends do.” “Unfortunately I'm not your friend,” she said, still smiling and wiping the tears from her eyes, “so I shall go on calling you Mr. Meredith if you don't mind.” She looked at her watch. “If you are not going to arrest me I'm going,” she said. “I have certainly no intention of arresting you,” said he, “but I am going to see you home!” She jumped up smartly. “You're not,” she commanded. She was so definite in this that he was startled. “My dear child,” he protested. “Please don't 'dear child' me,” she said seriously; “you're going to be a good little Tommy and let me go home by myself.” She held out her hand frankly and the laughing appeal in her eyes was irresistible. “Well, I'll see you to a cab,” he insisted. “And listen while I give the driver instructions where he is to take me?” She shook her head reprovingly. “It must be an awful thing to be a policeman.” He stood back with folded arms, a stern frown on his face. “Don't you trust me?” he asked. “No,” she replied. “Quite right,” he approved; “anyway I'll see you to the cab and you can tell the driver to go to Charing Cross station and on your way you can change your direction.” “And you promise you won't follow me?” she asked. “On my honour,” he swore; “on one condition though.” “I will make no conditions,” she replied haughtily. “Please come down from your great big horse,” he begged, “and listen to reason. The condition I make is that I can always bring you to an appointed rendezvous whenever I want you. Honestly, this is necessary, Belinda Mary.” “Miss Bartholomew,” she corrected, coldly. “It is necessary,” he went on, “as you will understand. Promise me that, if I put an advertisement in the agonies of either an evening paper which I will name or in the Morning Port, you will keep the appointment I fix, if it is humanly possible.”