do," she declared. "Go out and get something at once."
"Never even thought about lunch," he repeated, half to himself. "Where have you been?"
"Some luck," she replied. "First place I dropped in at. Found there was a girl gone home for the day, fainted. Lots of work to do, so they just stuck me down in her chair. Three dollars they gave me. The girl's coming back to-morrow, though, worse luck."
"When did you have your lunch?"
"Haven't had any. I'm going to make myself a cup of tea now."
He reached for his hat.
"Not on your life" he exclaimed. "Come along, Miss Martha Grimes. I have written lines—you just wait till you type them! I tell you it's what I have had at the back of my head for months. It's there now on paper—living, flaring words. Come along."
"Where to?"
"We are going to eat," he insisted. "I am faint, and so are you. We are going to that same place, and we'll have lunch and dinner in one."
"Nothing doing," she snapped. "You'll see some more people who recognise you."
He waved his hand contemptuously.
"Who cares! If you don't come along with me, I'll go up town to the Waldorf or the Ritz Carlton. I'll waste my money and advertise myself. Come along—that same little quiet corner. I don't suppose your friends will be there again."
"Stella won't," she admitted doubtfully. "She's
