Whatever the inward effect, Miss Durant could discover no outward evidence that Swot’s bombshell had moved Dr. Armstrong a particle more than her less pointed attempts to bring to him a realisation that he was behaving in a manner displeasing to her. When she entered the ward the next morning, the doctor was again there, and this time at the waif’s bedside, making avoidance of him out of the question. So with a “this-is-my-busy-day” manner, she gave him the briefest of greetings, and then turned to the boy. “I’ve brought you some more goodies, Swot, and I found the story,” she announced triumphantly. “Say, youse a winner, dat’s wot youse is; oin’t she, doc? Wot’s de noime?” Constance held up to him the red and yellow covered tale. “_The Cracksman’s Spoil, or Young Sleuth’s Double Artifice”_ she read out proudly. “Ah, g’way! Dat oin’t no good. Say, dey didn’t do a t’ing to youse, did dey?” “What do you mean?” “Dey sold youse fresh, dat’s wot dey did. De Young Sleut books oin’t no good. Dey’s nuttin’ but a fake extry.” “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Constance, crestfallenly. “It took me the whole afternoon to find it, but I did think it was what you wanted.” “I was sceptical of your being able to get even an approach to newsboy literature, Miss Durant,” said Dr. Armstrong, “and so squandered the large sum of a dime myself. I think this is the genuine article, isn’t it?” he asked, as he handed to the boy a pamphlet labelled _Old Sleuth on the Trail_. “Dat’s de real t’ing,” jubilantly acceded Swot. “Say, oin’t de women doisies for havin’ bases stole off ’em? Didn’t Ise give youse de warm tip to let de doc git it?” “You should thank him for saving you from my stupid blunder,” answered the girl, artfully avoiding all possibility of personal obligation. “Would you like me to read it to you now?” “Wouldn’t Ise, just!” Still ignoring Dr. Armstrong, Constance took the seat at the bedside, and opening the book, launched into the wildest sea of blood-letting and crime. Yet thrillingly as it began, she was not oblivious to the fact that for some minutes the doctor stood watching her, and she was quite conscious of when he finally moved away, noiselessly as he went. Once he was gone, she was more at her ease; yet clearly her conscience troubled her a little, for in her carriage she again gave expression to some thought by remarking aloud, “It was rude, of course, but if he will behave so, it really isn’t my fault.” [Illustration: “Constance took the seat at the bedside”]