"I am afraid, Saunders," replied Mark, "that I must take refuge again
in the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I really
don't get you."

"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?"

"Honestly, my good fellow," Mark began to show a little pique, "you
have remarkable curiosity about what isn't your business."

"But it _is_ my business, Griffin. I am not a book agent, and never
was."

It was Mark's turn to smile.

"Which fact," he said, "is not information to me. I knew it long ago.
You are a detective."

"I am. Does that tell you nothing?"

"Nothing," replied Mark, "except that you make up splendidly as a
really decent sort of fellow."

"Perhaps I am a decent sort, decent enough, anyhow; and perhaps I don't
particularly like my business, but it _is_ my business. Now, look
here, Griffin, I want you to help instead of hindering me. I have to
ask this question of you: What do you know about Ruth Atheson? You see
her every day."

"So," said Mark, annoyed, "the constable has not been around for
nothing."