"I didn't say anything about love," she laughed, her color deepening. "But in any case, you have put the cart before the horse. Love my dog and love me, you should say." "Certainly! Puddles!" I dropped on one knee, and held out a caressing hand, "try and love me--as a beginning." "A beginning to what?" asked Miss Monk, smiling and crimson. "Puddles knows, Puddles understands: see, he gives me his paw. Good dog." I shook the huge paw, patted the huge head, and rose to be conventional. "It is a beautiful day, isn't it, Miss Monk." "Of course, and the horse is the noblest of all animals," she replied with up-lifted eyebrows. "I thought you were more original, Mr. Vance." "I assure you that is a mistake. I am that harmless, and necessary person, the repeater of platitudes." She shuddered. "Don't repeat them to me, please, I hate copy-book phrases." "Yet what good sense they contain. Your remark about the horse is one, and is absolutely true." "So true," she mocked, "as to make the statement unnecessary." She turned to purchase a bag of dog-biscuits. "Are we fighting a verbal duel, Mr. Vance?" "It would seem so, Miss Monk, but the buttons are on our foils." With the bag in her arms, she wheeled nervously. "Why do you say that?" and there was apprehension in her dark eyes. "I speak for the sake of speaking." "No," her anxious eyes searched my face, "you are not that kind of man. If you----" she stopped and bit her lip, and with a curt nod walked rapidly out of the shop followed by Puddles. I did not attempt to follow, as I saw that my cryptic speech had interested her, and wished to give her time to think over my personality. While I remained in her thoughts, there was every hope that she would seek me again. Better that she should be afraid of me, than indifferent to me. And as I sauntered back to The Robin Redbreast, I felt convinced that she was afraid of me: my dark sayings had made her afraid. At our first meeting under the tin roof of Miss Destiny's hovel, I had seen the fear in her eyes, and at this second meeting I saw it again, more apparent. But, what could she be afraid of in connection with me? There was only one common-sense answer: Gertrude Monk was the lady who had stolen my motor-car, and who had--but no; I could not bring myself to believe the worst, even in the face of the obvious certainty that she was concealing something, which had to do with the weird circumstances at Mootley. She would explain when the time came, and that would be when she was sufficiently well acquainted with me to regard Mrs. Gilfin's eulogy as justified. Then--well I would wait until then, for in the pursuit of the impossible, I was developing a fine quality of patience.