presently deep in the discussion of their plans, McVay meanwhile
studying the map with unfeigned interest in the situation of his future
residence.

Cecilia, fortunately, gave them plenty of time for their arrangements,
for she had fallen asleep again, after the alarm of the early morning,
and the men must have been talking for two hours when she appeared at
the library door.

She cast a look of surprise at the addition to their party and Geoffrey
saw with a sort of paralysis that she was inclined to set him down as
the burglar whose footsteps she had heard in the night. To prevent any
betrayal of this opinion, Geoffrey advanced a few steps to meet her,
although as he did so, he realised that he had nothing to answer when
she asked, as of course she did ask: "Who is that?"

A sort of desperation, the cowardice that will sometimes attack the
brave took hold of Geoffrey. He looked at her hopelessly and would
perhaps in another instant have told her the truth, had not McVay, not
the least disconcerted, taken the lead.

"This, Cecilia," he said exuberantly, laying his hand on the detective's
shoulder, "is my old friend Picklebody,--Henderson Picklebody. You have
heard his name often enough, and he, yours, too. Eh, Henderson, in the
old Machita days?"

The detective, whose name was George P. Cook, was so taken up with his
surprise at the apparition of a beautiful woman that he scarcely heard
McVay. He began to guess something of the motives that led Holland to
shield this offender against the law, nor had he ever found it unwise to