minute."

"Perhaps, you can avoid it. Perhaps after you have positively
identified him I can do the rest. We will arrange it so, if we
can."

Her eyes flashed gratitude, then took on a new expression. She had
chanced to glance again at Miss Weeks, and Miss Weeks was not
looking quite natural. She was still crocheting, or trying to, but
her attitude was constrained and her gaze fixed; and that gaze was
not on her work, but directed towards a small object at her side,
which Reuther recognised from its open lid to be the little lady's
workbox.

"Something is the matter with Miss Weeks," she confided in a low
whisper to Mr. Black. "Don't turn; she's going to speak."

But Miss Weeks did not speak. She just got up, and, with a
careless motion, stood stretching herself for a moment, then
sauntered up to the table and began showing her work to Reuther.

"I've made a mistake," she pettishly complained. "See if you can
find out what's wrong." And, giving the work into Reuther's hand,
she stood watching, but with a face so pale that Mr. Black was not
astonished when she suddenly muttered in a very low tone:

"Don't move or show surprise. The shade of the window is up, and
somebody is looking in from outside. I saw his face reflected in
the mirror of my work-box. It isn't any one I know, but he was
looking very fixedly this way and may be looking yet. Now I am