'It is hot,' said Rutherford. 'You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?' 'Good heavens, no! Why?' 'She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought to get another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like that sometimes in the hot weather.' She looked round the room for a moment, then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. 'What did you say your name was?' she asked. 'Rutherford Maxwell.' 'Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that. I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like--what's it? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you got something shorter--Tom, or Charles or something?' 'I'm afraid not.' The round, grey eyes fixed him again. 'I shall call you George,' she decided at last. 'Thanks, I wish you would,' said Rutherford. 'George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name.' 'Thanks, I will.' 'Say, you're English, aren't you?' she said. 'Yes. How did you know?' 'You're so strong on the gratitude thing. It's "Thanks, thanks," all the time. Not that I mind it, George.' 'Thanks. Sorry. I should say, "Oh, you Peggy!"' She looked at him curiously. 'How d'you like New York, George?' 'Fine--tonight.' 'Been to Coney?' 'Not yet.' 'You should. Say, what do you do, George?' 'What do I do?' 'Cut it out, George! Don't answer back as though we were a vaudeville team doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds your envelope on to you Saturdays, what's it for?' 'I'm in a bank.' 'Like it?' 'Hate it!' 'Why don't you quit, then?' 'Can't afford to. There's money in being in a bank. Not much, it's true, but what there is of it is good.' 'What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't work you all day, do they?' 'No; they'd like to, but they don't. I have been writing.' 'Writing what? Say, you don't mind my putting you on the witness-stand, do you? If you do, say so, and I'll cut out the District Attorney act and talk about the weather.' 'Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as you like.' 'Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't have time over here to shoot it off like that. If you'd have just said "Sure!" I'd have got a line on your meaning. You don't mind me doing school-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good.' 'Sure,' said Rutherford, with a grin. She smiled approvingly. 'That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational rail? I know--about your writing. What were you writing?' 'A story.' 'For a paper?' 'For a magazine.' 'What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl whose life he saved, like you read?' 'That's the idea.' She looked at him with a new interest.