"Who is Octavius Rickaby?" I asked feebly. My mother smiled contemptuously. "Of course you wouldn't know," she said. "Mr. Rickably is a very clever private detective—or rather the head of an admirably conducted private detective office. He conducts a great many society cases"—sinking her voice to a whisper—"in fact I could name several of my friends whom he has helped. Of course, Elsie, if you make a fool of yourself, and fail to put him in possession of every detail of your case—every detail, mind—you must not be surprised if he fails. If you make a confidant of him, he will be of very material assistance, in fact your husband will not be able to wink unless you know it. He is reasonable, and, my dear, he is perfectly upright. He will never trouble you after you have settled his bill."
My heart sank within me. The word detective had an awful significance in my mind. In fact, I think I would as soon have invoked the aid of Mephistopheles. Detectives always suggested murders and abductions and burglaries to
