always trust to my discretion. But I would like just to remember her
name. It was so peculiar,--a name I never heard before."

The detective, who had been respectably married since he was twenty,
found himself unable to remember any female names and finally in agony
suggested "Mary."

"Mary, my dear fellow, no; that was your friend the paper-girl. There is
nothing very unusual about Mary, is there, Holland? No, the name I was
trying to think of was Ethelberta. Now you remember, don't you?"

"No, I don't," said the detective crossly, casting an appealing look at
Geoffrey.

"How sad that is," said McVay philosophically. "You don't even remember
her name, and at one time--well, well."

Or again, he would exclaim brightly, studying the detective's
countenance.

"Ah, Henderson, I see the mark of Sweeney's bullet has entirely gone. I
was afraid it would leave a scar. Tell my sister that yarn. I think it
would interest her."

"Yes, do, Mr. Picklebody," said the girl politely and McVay, when he had
sufficiently tortured his victim, would at length launch out into a
story himself. Miserable as the detective was under this sort of
treatment, it soon appeared that McVay's ease and facility had made an
impression on him, and that he looked at his prisoner with a sort of
wondering admiration.