It was McVay who urged on the preparations for departure, hurrying his sister, flitting about the house at such a rate that the detective, who was of a solider build, found it hard to keep up with. Nor was it only physical agility that McVay required of the unfortunate man. Having overheard Geoffrey telling him that he was not to betray the real state of things before Miss McVay, under penalty of losing his money, McVay took special delight in making him look like a fool, calling upon him to remember happenings which existed only in McVay’s own fertile brain. “What, Hen,” he would cry suddenly, “was the name of that pretty black haired girl you were so sweet on,—you know, the daughter of the canal-boat man.” The detective, looking very much alarmed, would of course reply that he did not know what McVay was talking about. “There, there,” McVay would reply soothingly patting him on the shoulder, “I’m not going into the story of the pink blanket. You can always trust to my discretion. But I would like just to remember her name. It was so peculiar,—a name I never heard before.” The detective, who had been respectably married since he was twenty, found himself unable to remember any female names and finally in agony suggested “Mary.” “Mary, my dear fellow, no; that was your friend the paper-girl. There is nothing very unusual about Mary, is there, Holland? No, the name I was trying to think of was Ethelberta. Now you remember, don’t you?” “No, I don’t,” said the detective crossly, casting an appealing look at Geoffrey. “How sad that is,” said McVay philosophically. “You don’t even remember her name, and at one time—well, well.” Or again, he would exclaim brightly, studying the detective’s countenance. “Ah, Henderson, I see the mark of Sweeney’s bullet has entirely gone. I was afraid it would leave a scar. Tell my sister that yarn. I think it would interest her.” “Yes, do, Mr. Picklebody,” said the girl politely and McVay, when he had sufficiently tortured his victim, would at length launch out into a story himself. Miserable as the detective was under this sort of treatment, it soon appeared that McVay’s ease and facility had made an impression on him, and that he looked at his prisoner with a sort of wondering admiration. “Now, Holland, are we all ready? Cecilia, have you got your little bag?” he began when they were about to depart. “Holland, my dear fellow, don’t think me interfering if I ask whether you have looked to all the doors and windows? Tramps and thieves are so apt to break into shut-up houses, and it would be such a pity if anything happened to any of your pretty things. Ah, what an expanse of snow. Beautiful, isn’t it? You may talk about your tropical scenery, Hen, but we shan’t see anything finer than this the world over. What a contrast the south will be though, eh, old man?” and, drawing the detective’s arm through his, leaning heavily upon him meanwhile, McVay moved forward, talking volubly.