Her eyes had sparkled when I had told her about Derry's beard; I had thought she was going to clap her hands. Except for Derry's golden one (she had said) she had never seen a beard that wasn't nasty. I myself (she had informed me) should look a perfect horror in one, and unless I remained clean-shaven she refused to be seen about with me.... So our customary quarrel blew up. We wrangled about one trifle and another half-way through dinner. It probably did us good, for underneath we were both badly on edge. Then along the edge of the table she slid a bent little finger. It was her way of making up. The finger rested in mine for a moment. "Well," I sighed, "I told you all I saw. I'm afraid that beard threw me quite out of my reckoning." She mused. "I once drew him with his beard, from memory. In armour. He looked just like King Arthur come to life again. I've got it yet.... But let's look at the thing reasonably, George. I admit there's something to be said for having a _pied-à-terre_ in his rooms. He might just possibly turn up there. It might also be--hm!--awkward if he did.... But the rest, all this hunting for him, that's a wash-out. You know it is." I was silent. Then again I saw in her eyes what I had seen before--the beginning of a soft deep shining, as if some diver's lamp moved beneath the waters at night. "No, I prefer my way," she said, suddenly sitting straight up. "Doing nothing at all?" "Fiddlesticks! _I'm_ supposed to sit and listen respectfully when _you_ talk, but _you_ never listen to what _I've_ got to say. I told you what my way was. I'll tell you again. I had tea at Daphne Bassett's flat this afternoon." "I hope you found Puppetty well," I remarked. The kindling eyes were steadily on mine. "Puppetty," she said slowly, "is in the greatest favour. Puppetty has wing-portions for dinner and bovril to go to bed with. Puppetty's to have a new quilt for being a good little doggles and protecting his mummie----" "What on earth----" I began. Then I sat up as suddenly as if I had been galvanised. "Julia! You don't mean----?" She nodded, darkling devils of mischief under that cool smooth brow. "What, that _he's_ still looking for _her_?" "He's found her. He spoke to her a couple of days ago." "And she recognised him?" "I didn't say that." "Didn't she recognise him?" "Didn't know him from Adam." "Then how do you know it was he?" I cannot convey the lightness of her disdain. "How do I know!----" I leaned back in my chair. To think that I had not thought of this, the oldest of all stratagems! _Guettez la femme!_ Runaways are caught by it every day, and always will be. They are released from custody and placed under observation so that they may walk straight into the trap. That is why the trick is old--it never fails. And I had not thought of it! She wore her triumph with such present moderation that I knew I had not heard the last of it.