commuted for a promise, on honour, of secrecy. And, indeed, little if
anything was told that could be revealed. The thing was not political:
spies on Russia or France were not being recruited. That was made
perfectly clear. Anybody might withdraw, if the prospect, when beheld
nearer, seemed undesirable. A mystified but rather merry gathering
walked away to remote lodgings, Miss Maskelyne alone patronising a
hansom.

On the day after the dinner Logan and Merton reviewed the event and its
promise, taking Trevor into their counsels. They were not ill satisfied
with the potential recruits.

'There was one jolly little thing in white,' said Trevor. 'So pretty and
flowering! "Cherries ripe themselves do cry," a line in an old song,
that's what her face reminded me of. Who was she?'

'She came with Miss Martin, the penny novelist,' said Logan. 'She is
stopping with her. A country parson's daughter, come up to town to try
to live by typewriting.'

'She will be of no use to us,' said Merton. 'If ever a young woman
looked fancy-free it is that girl. What did you say her name is, Logan?'

'I did not say, but, though you won't believe it, her name is Miss
Blossom, Miss Florry Blossom. Her godfathers and godmothers must bear
the burden of her appropriate Christian name; the other, the surname, is
a coincidence--designed or not.'

'Well, she is not suitable,' said Merton sternly. 'Misplaced affections
she might distract, but then, after she had distracted them, she might