party he is, always glancin' around suspicious. And that wanderin' store
eye of his, scoutin' about on its own hook independent of the other, sort
of adds to the general sleuthy effect. Kind of weird, too.

But I tries to forget that and get down to business.

"Surprisin' ain't it," says I, "how many of them shells can be turned out
by--"

"S-s-s-sh!" says he, glancin' cautious at the omnibus-boy comin' to set
up our table.

"Eh?" says I, after we've been supplied with rolls and sweet butter and
ice water. "Why the panic?"

"Spies!" he whispers husky.

"What, him?" says I, starin' after the innocent-lookin' party in the
white apron.

"There's no telling," says Cecil. "One can't be too careful. And it
will be best, I think, for you to address me simply as Mr. Fothergill.
As for the--er--goods you are producing, you might speak of them
as--er--hams, you know."

I expect I gawped at him some foolish. Think of springin' all that
mystery dope right on Broadway! And, as I'm none too anxious to talk
about shells anyway, we don't have such a chatty luncheon. I'm just as
satisfied. I wanted time to think what I should exhibit as the main
works.