chucking it in. He'd got her, good and plenty, in the first
five minutes. Bless her susceptible heart! Come on."

"Talk of susceptible hearts," jeered Macauley as he followed.
"There's the softest one in the county."

"Nobody would ever guess it," murmured Pauline Hempstead.

They tiptoed into the house, across the offices into the big,
square room which was Burns's own. He switched on a hooded
reading-light beside the bed and turned it so that its rays
fell on the small occupant.

He lay in spread-eagle, small-child fashion, arms and legs
thrown wide, the black, curly head disdaining the pillow, one
fist clutching a man's riding-crop. In sleep the little face
was an exquisite one; the onlookers might guess what it would
be awake.

Burns pointed at the crop, smiling. "That was the nearest
approach to a plaything I could muster to-night. To-morrow
the shops will help me out."

"I'll send over plenty in the morning, Red," whispered Martha
Macauley. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

"Did you bring him home just now?" questioned Winifred.

Burns nodded. "I hadn't meant to get him to-night, if I did
at all. My call took me within half a mile. I went over and