"Well, there you are," remarked the sallow-faced man, shrugging his shoulders in a patronizing, almost pitying way.
The Londoner winced.
"I distinctly heard the chauffeur say 'Very good, my lady,'" he said, after a moment. "That was a bit odd, wasn't it, now? You don't have any such things as titles over 'ere, do you?"
"Sure. Every steamer brings one or two of 'em to our little city."
The Englishman scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened.
"I remember, after all,—in a vague sort of way, don't you know,—that one of the ladies had white hair. I recall an instant's speculation on my part. I remember looking twice to be sure that it was hair and not a bit of lace thrown—"
"That's the party," exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "Now we're getting somewhere."
The next afternoon, the man from Scotland Yard paid a visit to Deborah's. Not at all abashed at finding himself in a place where all save angels fear to tread, he calmly asked to be conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sparflight. He tactfully refrained from adding "alias Deborah, Limited. London, Paris and New York." He declined to state his business.
"Madam," said he, coming straight to the point the instant he was ushered into the presence of the white-haired proprietress, "I sha'n't waste your time,—and mine, I may add,—by beating about the bush, as you Americans would say. I represent—"
"If you are an insurance agent or a book agent, you
