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 street a flower-seller's basket. Then he drove to Prince's Gate, wherein stood the Tullislaiths' town house. On the way Pollyooly hid the note in a bunch of violets; and as he passed them he pointed out Knightsbridge Barracks to her. They were less than ten minutes' walk from the scene of operation.

Captain Croome drove fifty yards beyond Prince's Gate, stopped the car, and bade Pollyooly come to the barracks with the tidings of her success or failure. Then he drove off, leaving her adjusting the strap of the basket round her neck.

Pollyooly presented the very picture of the ideal flower-seller. A Royal Academician, not observing that she was far too clean for the real, would have burned to paint her on the spot: her angel face and limpid blue eyes were in such admirable accord with the innocent violets she bore.

That sedate but red-headed cherub, the Lump, added just the pretty final touch that completed the picture of the ideal.

Pollyooly's heart beat high, and by no means only with the mercenary anticipation of half-a-crown. She was full of the joyful sense of adventure; and angel smile after angel smile wreathed