She had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar, Mr. Seymour Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been present at the last Marlborough House garden party--in the cloak-room, that is to say, where she caught sight of Lady Thingummy's hat, Miss What-you-may-call's sunshade, and of various other things modistical or fashionable, all of which were duly described under the heading "Royalty and Dress" in the early afternoon edition of the _Evening Observer_. (The article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files of that leading halfpennyworth.) For these reasons--and for various others, too--Polly felt irate with the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as any pair of brown eyes can speak. She had been reading an article in the _Daily Telegraph_. The article was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting audibly upon it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in direct answer to her thoughts. She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton (of the _Evening Observer)_ had a keen sense of humour, which two years' association with the British Press had not succeeded in destroying, and the appearance of the man was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose fancy. Polly thought to herself that she had never seen any one so pale, so thin, with such funny light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly across the top of a very obviously bald crown. He looked so timid and nervous as he fidgeted incessantly with a piece of string; his long, lean, and trembling fingers tying and untying it into knots of wonderful and complicated proportions. Having carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality Polly felt more amiable. "And yet," she remarked kindly but authoritatively, "this article, in an otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that, even within the last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely baffled the police, and the perpetrators of them are still at large." "Pardon me," he said gently, "I never for a moment ventured to suggest that there were no mysteries to the _police_; I merely remarked that there were none where intelligence was brought to bear upon the investigation of crime." "Not even in the Fenchurch Street _mystery_. I suppose," she asked sarcastically. "Least of all in the so-called Fenchurch Street _mystery_," he replied quietly.