passed right out of his mind. Yet she was quick to see, for her wits were now working at high pressure, that this strange forgetfulness was in her favour. At any rate, it was going to help her in the task of keeping, as far as possible, the Van Roon out of the case.
"Lyons', wasn't it, we met at? One day last week? Your name's?"
"I'm Miss Gedge." June's tone was a shade "stand off," for that appeared to be correct in the circumstances.
"Miss Gedge—yes—of course. Stupid of me to forget." He fixed the eye of a man with a sense of humour upon this odd visitor. "I've a shocking memory for names. Very glad to see you, anyhow, Miss Gedge." He took the low chair opposite with the calm and easy air of a model host. "And very nice of you to come on a damp and foggy night."
The tone, rather than the words, put it up to June to explain her coming. She did so rather awkwardly, with a touch of "nerves." Yet before committing herself to any positive statement as to why she was there, she was careful to dispose the parcel she carried as far beyond the range of his eyes as was possible at the side of the wicker chair in which she sat.
"You told me the other day"—She found it impossible to control the queer little tremble in her voice—"that you wanted an artist's model, and that my hair was just the colour you were looking for."
"By Jove, yes," he laughed. "Your hair's topping." The laugh deepened to enthusiasm. "It's the colour I want, to a hayseed." An eye of veiled appraisement passed slowly over her. "And what's almost as important there's stooks of it."
