trousers so there might be no tension at the knees, and
looked across the tiny separating table at his _vis-a-vis_, while his
eyelids whimsically tightened.

"Well," he queried, "what do you think of it?"

The little brunette, his companion, roused herself almost with a start,
while a suggestion of conscious red tinged her face. "I beg your
pardon?" she said, inquiringly.

The man smiled. "Forgotten already, wasn't I?" he bantered.

"No, certainly not. I--"

A hand, delicate and carefully manicured as a woman's, was raised in
protest. "Don't prevaricate, please. The occasion isn't worth it." The
hand returned to the chair-arm with a play of light upon the solitaire
it bore. The smile broadened. "You were caught. Confess, and the
sentence will be lighter."

As a wave recedes, the red flood began to ebb from the girl's face. "I
confess, then. I was--thinking."

"And I was--forgotten. My statement was correct."

She looked up, and the two smiled companionably.

"Admitted. I await the penalty."

The man's expression changed into mock sternness. "Very well, Miss
Baker; having heard your confession and remembering a promise to
exercise clemency, this court is about to impose sentence. Are you
prepared to listen?"

"I'm growing stronger every minute."

The court frowned, the heavy black eyebrows making the face really
formidable.

"I fear the defendant doesn't realize the enormity of the offence.
However, we'll pass that by. The sentence, Miss Baker, brings me back to
the starting-point. You are directed to answer the question just
propounded, the question which for some inexplicable reason you didn't
hear. What do you think of it--this roof-garden, and things in general?"
The stern voice paused; the brows relaxed, and he smiled again. "But
first, you're sure you won't have something more--an ice, a wee
bottle--anything?"

The girl shook her head.

"Then let's make room here at this table for a better man; to hint at
vacating for a better woman would be heresy! It's pleasanter over there
in the corner out of the light, where one can see the street."

They found a vacant bench behind a skilfully arranged screen of palms,
and Sidwell produced a cigar.

"In listening to a tale or a confession," he explained, "one should
always call in the aid of nicotine. I fancy Munchausen's listeners must
have been smokers."

The girl steadily inspected the dark mobile face, half concealed in the
shadow. "You're making