“What will you drink, sir?”

“Lager,” said Willis, at random.

“Pilsener, sir, or Barclay’s London Lager?”

“Oh, Pilsener.”

“Light or dark, sir?”

“Light-dark-no, I mean light.”

“Large light Pilsener, sir?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Tankard, sir?”

“Yes, no-damn it! Bring it in anything that’s got a hole in the top.” There seemed no end to the questions that could be asked about beer. The girl had taken the object, and was doing something with it. What? For heaven’s sake, what?

“Roast or new potatoes, sir?”

“New.” The man had gone, thank goodness. Bredon was holding Pamela Dean’s hand-no, he was turning over the object that lay on her palm. The woman opposite Willis was stretching across for the sugar-basin-her head obstructed his view-deliberately, as it seemed to him. She moved back. Bredon was still examining the object-

A large dinner-wagon, laden with steaming joints under great silver covers was beside him. A lid was lifted-the odour of roast mutton smote him in the face.

“A little more fat, sir? You like it underdone?”

Great God! What monster helpings they gave one at this place! What sickening stuff mutton was! How vile were these round yellow balls of potato that the man kept heaping on his plate! What disgusting stuff cauliflower could be-a curdle of cabbage! Willis, picking with nauseated reluctance at the finest roast saddle in London, felt his stomach cold and heavy, his feet a-twitch.

The hateful meal dragged on. The indignant couple finished their gooseberry pie and went their affronted way without waiting for coffee. Now Willis could see better. The other two were laughing now and talking eagerly. In a sudden lull a few words of Pamela’s floated clearly back to him: “It’s to be fancy dress, so you’ll slip in all right.” Then she dropped her voice again.

“Will you take any more mutton, sir?”

Try as he would, Willis could catch nothing more. He sat on in Simpson’s until Bredon, glancing at his watch, appeared to remind himself and his companion that advertising copy-writers must work sometimes. Willis was ready for them. His bill was paid. He had only to shelter behind the newspaper he had brought in with him until they had passed him and then-what? Follow them out? Pursue them again in a taxi, wondering all the time how closely they were clasped together, what they were saying to one another, what appointments they were making, what new devilment there was still in store for Pamela, now that Victor Dean was out of the way, and what he would or could do next to make the world safe for her to live in?

He was spared the decision. As the two came abreast of them, Bredon, suddenly popping his head over the Lunch Edition of the Evening Banner, observed cheerfully:

“Hullo, Willis! enjoyed your lunch? Excellent saddle, what? But you should have tried the peas. Can I give you a lift back to the tread-mill?”

“No, thanks,” growled Willis; and then realized that if he had said, “Yes, please,” he would at least have made an ardent tête-à-tête in the taxi impossible. But ride in the same taxi with Pamela Dean and Bredon he could not.

“Miss Dean, unhappily, has to leave us,” went on Bredon. “You might come and console me by holding my hand.”

Pamela was already half-way out of the room. Willis could not decide whether she knew to whom her escort was speaking and had studied to avoid him, or whether she supposed him to be some friend of Bredon’s unknown of her. Quite suddenly he made up his mind.

“Well,” he said, “it is getting a bit late. If you’re having a taxi, I’ll share it with you.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Bredon. Willis rose and joined him and they moved on to where Pamela was waiting.

“I think you know our Mr. Willis?”

“Oh, yes,” Pamela smiled a small., frozen smile. “Victor and he were great friends at one time.”

The door. The stairs. The entrance. They were outside at last.

“I must be getting along now. Thank you so much for my lunch, Mr. Bredon. And you won’t forget?”

“I certainly will not. ’Tisn’t likely, is it?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Willis.”

“Good afternoon.”

She was gone, walking briskly in her little, high-heeled shoes. The roaring Strand engulfed her. A taxi purred up to them.

Bredon gave the address and waved Willis in before him.

“Pretty kid, young Dean’s sister,” he remarked, cheerfully.

“See here, Bredon; I don’t know quite what your game is, but you’d better be careful. I told Dean and I tell you-if you get Miss Dean mixed up with that dirty business of yours-”

“What dirty business?”

“You know well enough what I mean.”

“Perhaps I do. And what then? Do I get my neck broken, like Victor Dean?”

Bredon slewed round as he spoke and looked Willis hard in the eye.

“You’ll get-” Willis checked himself. “Never mind,” he said darkly, “you’ll get what’s coming to you. I’ll see to that.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll do it very competently, what?” replied Bredon. “But do you mind telling me exactly where you come into it? From what I can see, Miss Dean does not seem to welcome your championship with any great enthusiasm.”

Willis flushed a dusky red.

“It’s no business of mine, of course,” went on Bredon, airily, while their taxi chugged impatiently in a traffic jam at Holborn Tube Station, “but then, on the other hand, it doesn’t really seem to be any business of yours, does it?”

“It is my business,” retorted Willis. “It’s every decent man’s business. I heard Miss Dean making an appointment with you,” he went on, angrily.

“What a detective you would make,” said Bredon, admiringly. “But you really ought to take care, when you are shadowing anybody, that they are not sitting opposite a mirror, or anything that will serve as a mirror. There is a picture in front of the table where we were sitting, that reflects half the room. Elementary, my dear Watson. No doubt you will do better with practice. However, there is no secret about the appointment. We are going to a fancy dress affair on Friday. I am meeting Miss Dean for dinner at Boulestin’s at 8 o’clock and we are going on from there. Perhaps you would care to accompany us?”

The policeman dropped his arm, and the taxi lurched forward into Southampton Row.

“You’d better be careful,” growled Willis, “I might take you at your word.”

“I should be charmed, personally,” replied Bredon. “You will decide for yourself whether Miss Dean would or would not be put in an embarrassing position if you joined the party. Well, well, here we are at our little home from home. We must put aside this light badinage and devote ourselves to Sopo and Pompayne and Peabody ’s Piper Parritch. A delightful occupation, though somewhat lacking in incident. But let us not complain. We can’t expect battle, murder and sudden death more than once a week or so. By the way, where were you when Victor Dean fell downstairs?”

“In the lavatory,” said Willis, shortly.

“Were you, indeed?” Bredon looked at him once more attentively. “In the lavatory? You interest me strangely.”

The atmosphere of the copy-department was much less strained by tea-time. Messrs. Brotherhood had been and gone, having seen nothing to shock their sense of propriety; Mr. Jollop, mellowed by his lunch, had passed three large poster designs with almost reckless readiness and was now with Mr. Pym, being almost persuaded to increase his appropriation for the autumn campaign. The suffering Mr. Armstrong, released from attendance on Mr. Jollop, had taken himself away to visit his dentist. Mr. Tallboy, coming in to purchase a stamp from Miss Rossiter for his private correspondence, announced with delight that the Nutrax half-double had gone to the printer’s.

“Is that ‘KITTLE CATTLE’?” asked Ingleby. “You surprise me. I thought we should have trouble with it.”