“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
morning just because you say so, and if you only believed I was very, very good, I ’m convinced I should be a saint.”
“Yes, madam,” answered Dorrance, feeling a bit out of her depth and also a little ill at ease, for although she was a stout, middle-aged and rosy-cheeked English party with a Santa Claus smile and motherly manner, she eyed human nature with suspicion and made a living as a detective in the United States Customs’ Service. “Yes, madam,—thank you, madam.—Shall I go or can I get you anything?”
“Nothing, thank you!” smiled Lily “Unless you hand me my pearls over there. Fantine’s hands are full of my hair and things.”
She nodded towards the dresser where on a red morocco case lay coiled the pearl necklace that she had bought at Voysans’ in the Rue de la Paix the week before sailing with the money her husband had sent her for the purpose.
Mrs. Dorrance had seen the pearls before, had seen them daily, had been watching for them, in fact, when Mrs. Trevelyan had come aboard at Genoa, owing to the perfection of that system of espionage adopted by the Cus-101
