where I was brought up in Massachusetts, and I know more about
him, I dare say, than any one else in this country. What I know
isn't very much, perhaps, but it's interesting. I was to have
lunched with him at the Carlton today; in fact, I went there
expecting to do so, for I am like you--I scarcely ever look
inside these English newspapers. Well, I went to the Carlton and
waited and he did not come. At last I went into the office and
asked whether he had arrived. Directly I mentioned his name, it
was as though I had thrown a bomb shell into the place. The clerk
called me on one side, took me into a private office, and showed
me a newspaper. As soon as I had read the account, I was
interviewed by an inspector from Scotland Yard. Ever since then I
have been followed about by reporters."

The young man whistled softly.

"Say, Penelope!" he exclaimed. "Who was this fellow, anyhow, and
what were you doing lunching with him?"

"That doesn't matter," she answered. "You don't tell me all your
secrets, Mr. Dicky Vanderpole, and it isn't necessary for me to
tell you all mine, even if we are both foreigners in a strange
country. The poor fellow isn't going to lunch with any one else
in this world. I suppose you are thinking what an indiscreet
person I am, as usual?"

The young man considered the matter for a moment.

"No," he said; "I didn't understand that he was the sort of
person you would have been likely to have taken lunch with. But