For these reasons--and for various others, too--Polly felt irate with
the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as any
pair of brown eyes can speak.

She had been reading an article in the _Daily Telegraph_. The article
was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting audibly upon
it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in direct answer to
her thoughts.

She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton
(of the _Evening Observer)_ had a keen sense of humour, which two years'
association with the British Press had not succeeded in destroying, and
the appearance of the man was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose
fancy. Polly thought to herself that she had never seen any one so pale,
so thin, with such funny light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly
across the top of a very obviously bald crown. He looked so timid and
nervous as he fidgeted incessantly with a piece of string; his long,
lean, and trembling fingers tying and untying it into knots of wonderful
and complicated proportions.

Having carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality Polly
felt more amiable.

"And yet," she remarked kindly but authoritatively, "this article, in an
otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that, even within the
last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely baffled the police,
and the perpetrators of them are still at large."

"Pardon me," he said gently, "I never for a moment ventured to suggest
that there were no mysteries to the _police_; I merely remarked that