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 'Effie.'

'Yes.'

'Look out Captain Jones's English address for this young lady.'

'Yes, Mr. Clapyard.'

When the interview with Mr. Clapyard was over, the two young women went below to the little bookshop which in spare moments Effie helped to serve. From a drawer in a cluttered desk she drew out a stack of letters holding them so her guest might not see the writing. Jealousy suddenly flamed up in Lanice. Could it be that Anthony Jones, who had never written a line to her, had carried on a voluminous correspondence with this horrid little girl? Slowly and with a rude secrecy she read letter after letter, looked up and stared into Lanice's face.

'By now he must have sailed.'

'I am sure that he has not.'

'Why do you say that?'

'I feel that it is true.'

'Oh—of course—woman's intuitions. You are very much interested in Captain Jones?' The American girl's eyes flashed and her light jaw settled like steel. There was something reptilian and dangerous in the slight swinging poise of her sleek head, on its long neck.

'Yes,' she said.

'Not a matter of captions?'

'No.'

'What if I refuse to give it to you?'

'I'll go back to Mr. Clapyard.'