ing! Some schemin' man will turn her head, I'll go bail, an'
all for the sake of her brass."

"Most likely a one-legged gunner, name of Jim."

"Well, it won't be a two-legged painter, name of Jack!" And Eliza
bounced out.

Now, Mary of the curl papers, having occasion to go upstairs while
Trenholme was eating, peeped through the open door of the room which
he had converted into a studio. She saw a picture on the easel, and
the insatiable curiosity of her class led her to examine it. Even a
country kitchen maid came under its spell instantly. After a pause of
mingled admiration and shocked prudery, she sped to the kitchen.

"Seein' is believin'," quoted Eliza, mounting the stairs in her turn.
She gazed at the drawing brazenly, with hands resting on hips and head
cocked sidewise like an inquisitive hen's.

"Well, I never did!" was her verdict.

Back in the kitchen again, she announced firmly to Mary--

"_I'll_ take in the cheese."

She put the Stilton on the table with a determined air.

"You don't know anything about Miss Sylvia Manning, don't you?" she
said, with calm guile.

"Never heard the lady's name before you mentioned it," said Trenholme.

"Mebbe not, but it strikes me you've _seen_ more of her than most
folk."

"Eliza," he cried, without any pretense at smiling good humor, "you've
been sneaking!"

"Sneakin', you call it? I 'appened to pass your room, an' who could
help lookin' in? I was never so taken aback in me life. You could ha'
knocked me down with a feather."

"An ostrich feather with an ostrich's leg behind it," was the angry
retort.

Eliza's eyes glinted with the fire of battle.

"The shameless ways of girls nowadays!" she breathed. "To let any
young man gaze at her in them sort of clothes, if you can call 'em
clothes!"

"It was an accident. She didn't know I was there. Anyhow, you dare
utter another word about that picture, even hint at its existence, and
I'll paint you without any clothes at all. I mean that, so beware!"

"Sorry to interrupt," said a high-pitched voice from the doorway.
"You are Mr. John Trenholme, I take it? May I come in? My name's
Furneaux."

"Jim, of the Royal Artillery?" demanded Trenholme angrily.

"No. Charles Francois, of Scotland Yard."

Eliza fled, completely cowed. She began to weep, in noisy gulps.

"I've dud-dud-done it!" she explained to agitated curl papers. "That
pup-pup-pore Mr. Trenholme. They've cuc-cuc-come for him. He'll be
lul-lul-loc