The gory tale, in true serial style, was “continued” the next and succeeding mornings, to the enthralment of the listener and the amusement of the reader, the latter finding in her occupation as well a convenient reason for avoiding or putting a limit to the doctor’s undisguised endeavours to share, if not, indeed, to monopolise, her attention. Even serials, however, have an end, and on the morning of the sixth reading the impossibly shrewd detective successfully put out of existence, or safely incarcerated each one of the numerous scoundrels who had hitherto triumphed over the law, and Constance closed the book. “Hully gee!” sighed Swot, contentedly. “Say, dat Old Sleut, he’s up to de limit, oin’t he? It don’t matter wot dey does, he works it so’s de hull push comes his way, don’t he?” “He certainly was very far-seeing,” Constance conceded; “but what a pity it is that he—that he wasn’t in some finer calling.” “Finer wot?” “How much nobler it would have been if, instead of taking life, he had been saving it—like Dr. Armstrong, for instance,” she added, to bring her idea within the comprehension of the boy. “Ah, dat’s de talk for religious mugs an’ goils,” contemptuously exclaimed the waif, “but it guv’s me de sore ear. It don’t go wid me, not one little bit.” “Aren’t you grateful to Dr. Armstrong for all he’s done for you?” “Bet youse life,” assented Swot; “but Ise oin’t goin’ to be no doctor, nah! Ise goin’ to git on de force, dat’s de racket Ise outer. Say, will youse read me anudder of dem stories?” “Gladly, if I can find the right kind this time.” The boy raised his head to look about the ward. “Hey, doc,” called his cracked treble. “Hush, don’t!” protested the girl. “W’y not?” Before she could frame a reason, the doctor was at the bedside. “What is it?” he asked. “Say, wese got tru wid dis story, an’ Miss Constance says she’ll read me anudder, but dey’ll set de goime up on her, sure, she bein’ a goil; so will youse buy de real t’ing?” “That I will.” “Dat’s hunky.” Then he appealed to Constance. “Say, will youse pay for it?” he requested. “And why should she?” inquired Dr. Armstrong. “’Cause she’s got de dough, an Ise heard de nurse loidies talkin’ ’bout youse, an’ dey said dat youse wuz poor.” It was the doctor’s turn to colour, and flush he did. “Swot and I will both be very grateful, Dr. Armstrong, if you will get us another of the Old Sleuth books,” spoke up Miss Durant, hastily. “Won’t youse guv ’im de price?” reiterated the urchin. “Then we’ll expect it to-morrow morning,” went on the girl; and for the first time in days she held out her hand to Dr. Armstrong, “And thank you in advance for your kindness. Good-morning.” “Rats!” she heard, as she walked away. “I didn’t tink she’d do de grand sneak like dat, doc, jus’ ’cause I tried to touch her for de cash.” Constance slowed one step, then resumed her former pace. “He surely— Of course he’ll understand why I hurried away,” she murmured.