he did so, he realised that he had nothing to answer when
she asked, as of course she did ask: "Who is that?"

A sort of desperation, the cowardice that will sometimes attack the
brave took hold of Geoffrey. He looked at her hopelessly and would
perhaps in another instant have told her the truth, had not McVay, not
the least disconcerted, taken the lead.

"This, Cecilia," he said exuberantly, laying his hand on the detective's
shoulder, "is my old friend Picklebody,--Henderson Picklebody. You have
heard his name often enough, and he, yours, too. Eh, Henderson, in the
old Machita days?"

The detective, whose name was George P. Cook, was so taken up with his
surprise at the apparition of a beautiful woman that he scarcely heard
McVay. He began to guess something of the motives that led Holland to
shield this offender against the law, nor had he ever found it unwise to
yield to the whims of young millionaires.

Cecilia, who was too gentle or too politic to betray the fact that she
heard the interesting name of Picklebody for the first time, remarked in
a tone as cheerful as she could make it:

"I suppose that if Mr. Picklebody could get in we can get out now."

"Can and will," rejoined McVay beamingly. "Hen comes as he has always
come to his friends, as a rescuer."

"I seem to require a great deal of rescuing," said the girl, looking up
at the monopolist in the art who had so far said nothing.

"Ah, but you don't understand, my dear," went on McVay ruthlessly
cutting into the look which the lovers were exchanging; "You don't yet
understand how fortunate we are in our friends. Henderson did not, it is
true, come to find me. It was the greatest coincidence his meeting me
here. It seems that he and Holland are both interested in a mine in
Mexico, and what do you think?" McVay paused and rubbed his hands;
"Really, we have the kindest friends; they have been arranging between
them to offer me a job down there. What do you think of that?"

Cecilia who had been trying to imagine any future after they left the
shelter of the grey stone house, would have answered if she had been
thoroughly candid that she thought Mexico was a terribly long distance
away, but she only observed:

"How very kind of them. I am sure we shall like Mexico."

"There, there, do you hear that? 'We.' Gentlemen," cried McVay, throwing
up his hands, "I cannot leave my sister alone,--deserted. Consider it
all off."

"Oh, I wasn't to go?" asked Cec