He rose, too, and paced up and down, wondering at her mood. His track was short, for the roof sloped on one side, and the place was encumbered with Fancy’s paraphernalia and furniture. His eyes fell, after a while, upon a cigar box on her bureau. It stood upright, under the mirror, and had little doors, glued on with paper hinges, so that the two opened, like the front of a Japanese shrine of Buddha. He went to it and looked at it. Thoughtlessly, with no idea of committing an indiscretion, little suspecting that it could hold anything private or sacred, he swung the little doors open. Then he shut them hastily and walked to the window with a clutch at his heart. Inside he had seen his own photograph. Before it was a little glass jar with a few violets. They were fresh, fragrant. Lettered upon a strip of paper pasted on the inside was the inscription: No Fair Falling In Love. He walked away hurriedly to stare hard out of the window. She came into the room again as he composed himself, and her face, newly washed, was radiant. She reseated herself upon the bed, and, taking up a pair of stockings, proceeded to darn a small hole in the heel. "Have you got a position, Fancy?" She laughed. "Vixley wrote me a note and told me he had a job for me if I wanted it, but I turned him down. You couldn’t guess what I _am_ doing, Frank." "What?" "Detective." She looked up innocently. "You don’t mean—" "No! Just little jobs for the chief of police, that’s all. I’m investigating doctors who practise without a license, that’s all. I say, Masterson had better look out or he’ll get pulled." "I’m sorry you haven’t anything better, Fancy. Miss Payson said she’d get you a place in her father’s office if you’d go. Would you?" "No." Fancy’s eyes were upon her needle. "Why not?" "Frank," she said, "do you remember asking me to inquire about that soldier the little girl with freckles wanted to find?" "Yes. I thought you said that the ticket agent at the ferry had left, and so you couldn’t get anything." "He was only off on a vacation. He’s come back, and I saw him yesterday. He remembered that soldier perfectly—I don’t see how anybody could fail to—he must look awful. He said he bought a ticket for Santa Barbara." "That’s good. I hope she’ll come in again," said Granthope. "She was a nice little thing." "She was real, Frank, and that’s what few people are, nowadays." He looked at her for a minute. "There’s no doubt that you are, Fancy." "I wish I were. I’m only a drifter, Frank." She kept on with her darning, not looking up. "Fancy, I want to do something for you. Won’t you let me help you?" "I’m all right, Frank. I told you I wanted to have some fun before I settled down again. But if I ever do need anything, I’ll let you know." "Promise me that—that whenever you want me, you’ll send for me, or come to me, Fancy!"