Why is it, I wonder, that detectives always look like journalists?" She
looked at him with eyes of friendly criticism. "You didn't deceive me,
you see. But then"--ingenuously--"I'm clever in some ways, much more
clever than you'd think. Now you won't cut me next time we meet, will
you? Because--perhaps--I'm going to ask you to do something for me."

"What do you want me to do?"

The man's voice was hard, his eyes cold as steel, but his question had
in it a shade--just a shade--of something warmer than mere curiosity.

She took him into her confidence without an instant's hesitation.

"My cousin Archie--you may have noticed--you were looking on last
night--he's a very careless player, and headstrong too. But he can't
afford to lose any, and I don't want him to come to grief. You see, I'm
rather fond of him."

"Well?"

The man's brows were drawn down over his eyes. His expression was not
encouraging.

"Well," she proceeded, undismayed, "I saw you looking on, and you looked
as if you knew a few things. So I thought you'd be a safe person to ask.
I can't look after him; and his mother--well, she's worse than useless.
But a man--a real strong man like you--is different. If I were to
introduce you, couldn't you look after him a bit--just till we get
across?"