The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head
coldly.

'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into the
chair which had held the remains of George.

The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than
that to embarrass Mr Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but not
coldness.

'_The_ Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheard
your conversation just now.'

'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.

'For all I was worth,' said Mr Mifflin. 'These things are very much a
matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have
had to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversation
of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me.
However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that I
heard you--unknowingly, of course--doing a good man a grave injustice.'

'Mr Callender could have defended himself if he had wished.'

'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself.'

'To you?'

'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George,
but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. George