“That is a pretty speech,” she said, “and I will let you call to-morrow and see me.” He took a careful note of the address; it was an exclusive maisonette in Bloomsbury Square; and the next evening found him ringing the bell, but this time he was not in uniform. He left at ten o’clock, an ecstatic man who held his head high and dreamt golden dreams, for the fragrance of her charm (as he wrote her) “permeated his very being.” Ten minutes after he had gone, the girl came out, closed the door behind her and went out into the street, and the idler who had been promenading the pavement threw away his cigar. “Good evening. Miss Bassano,” he said. She drew herself up. “I am afraid you have made a mistake,” she said stiffly. “Not at all. You’re Miss Bassano, and my only excuse for addressing you is that I am a neighbour of yours.” She looked more closely at him. “Oh, Mr. Broad!” she said in a more gracious tone. “I’ve been visiting a friend of mine who is rather ill.” “So I’m told, and a nice flat your friend occupies,” he said as he fell in by her side. “I was thinking of hiring it a few days ago. These furnished apartments are difficult to find. Maybe it was a week ago—yes, it was a week ago,” he said carefully; “it was the day before you had your lamentable accident in Shepherd’s Bush.” “I don’t quite understand you,” she said, on her guard at once. “The truth is,” said Mr. Broad apologetically, “that I’ve been trying to get at Bron too. I’ve been making a very careful study of the prison staff for the past two months, and I’ve a list of the easy boys that has cost me a lot of money to compile. I suppose you didn’t reach the stage where you persuaded him to talk about his interesting prisoner? I tried him last week,” he went on reminiscently. “He goes to a dance club at Hammersmith, and I got acquainted with him through a girl he’s keen about—you’re not the only young love of his life, by the way.” She laughed softly. “What a clever man you are, Mr. Broad!” she said. “No, I’m not very interested in prisoners. By the way, who is this person you were referring to?” “I was referring to Number Seven, who is in Pentonville Gaol,” said Mr. Broad coolly, “and I’ve got an idea he is a friend of yours.” “Number Seven?” Her perplexity would have convinced a less hardened man than Joshua Broad. “I have an idea that that is something to do with the Frogs.” “That is something to do with the Frogs,” agreed the other gravely, “about whom I daresay you have read. Miss Bassano, I’ll make you an offer.” “Offer me a taxi, for I’m tired of walking,” she said, and when they were seated side by side she asked: “What is your offer?”