Selwyn sat upright. A certain rigidity of which he is capable
stiffened him. He looked much, but said nothing.

"I've had an interesting time this afternoon. I never wanted to be a
detective person, but I can understand the fascination of the
profession. Luck was with me, and in less than thirty minutes after
meeting her I was pretty sure Madeleine Swink was not in love with
Harrie and was in love with some one else. A few minutes later I
found out who she was in love with, found he was equally in love with
her; that they were once engaged and still want to get married. Our
job's to help them do it."

Selwyn's seriousness is a heritage. Frowningly he looked at me.
"This is hardly a thing to jest about. I may be very dense, but I
fail to understand--"


For an hour we talked of Madeleine Swink and Mrs. Swink, of Harrie
and Tom Cressy, and in terms which even a man could understand I told
how my discoveries had been made, of how I had managed to see Tom and
Madeleine together, and of my frank questioning of the former. But
what I did not tell him was that my thought was not of them alone.
By my side the little girl with the baby in her arms had seemed
clinging to my skirt.

"What sort of a girl is she?" In Selwyn's voice was relief and
anxiety. "Has she courage enough to take things in her own hands?
I've no conscience so far as her mother is concerned. She deserves
no consideration, but, being an interested party, I--"