for horse, saddle, and groom. You will spend most of your time riding
in the Park--for the present."

"But--Mr. Keen--am I to be one of your agents--a sort of detective?"

Keen regarded her absently, then crossed one leg over the other.

"Read me your notes," he said with a smile.

She read them, folded them, and he took them from her, thoughtfully
regarding her.

"Did you know that your mother and I were children together?" he asked.

"No!" She stared. "Is _that_ why you sent for me that day at the school
of stenography?"

"That is why . . . When I learned that my playmate--your mother--was
dead, is it not reasonable to suppose that I should wish her daughter to
have a chance?"

Miss Southerland looked at him steadily.

"She was like you--when she married . . . I never married . . . Do you
wonder that I sent for you, child?"

Nothing but the clock ticking there in the sunny room, and an old man
staring into two dimmed brown eyes, and the little breezes at the open
window whispering of summers past.