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 "It's his mouth I go by, as much as anything."

Miss Heriot coated the back of the print with starch, and laid it dexterously in its place. A sheet of foolscap and her handkerchief—an almost unfeminine handkerchief—did the rest. And still she said no more.

"You didn't think much of Rutter, Milly?"

"I thought he had a bad accent and"

"Go on."

"Well—to be frank—worse manners!"

"Milly, you are right, and I'm not sure that I oughtn't to be frank with you. Let the next print wait a minute I like you to see something of the fellows in my house; it's only right that you should know something about them first. I've a great mind to tell you what I don't intend another soul in the place to know."

Heriot had planted himself in British attitude, heels to the fender.

Miss Heriot turned round on her stool. She was as like her brother as a woman still young can be like a rather elderly man; her hair was fair, and she had not come to spectacles; but her eyes were as keen and kindly as his own, her whole countenance as sensible and shrewd.

"You can trust me, Bob," she said.

"I know I can," he answered, pipe in hand. "That's why I'm going to tell you what neither boy nor man shall learn through me. What type of lad does this poor Rutter suggest to your mind?"

There was a pause.

"I hardly like to say."

"But I want to know."

"Well—then—I'm sure I couldn't tell you why—but he struck me as more like a lad from the stables than anything else."

"What on earth makes you think that?" Heriot