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 "You! You said you would help me against John Boland and you are falling for her."

Henry's eyes widened again, but he was being deliciously entertained. So obviously this was not Miss Marceau, but the little Siwash accusing.

"She spoke to you at the Country Club yesterday afternoon, and just for that you went off and lay down and pulled up handfuls of grass on Pigeon Point."

"Oh, look here now!" Henry seized the girl by the elbows almost angrily. "I'm not going to have you spying upon me."

"It was lucky for you that somebody was spying last night when that yeggman slugged you on the head." The black eyes were bold now—impudent even.

"Adam John!" Henry cried out, humbled and shamed. "So that's how Adam John was there! Come here, you child!" he commanded sternly.

The girl obeyed him meekly.

"Listen," he said in the voice of one no longer to be trifled with. "For me, Miss Marceau is gone—sunk without a trace. You are Lahleet, the little Siwash. Get down there where you were this morning, while I sit on the couch and lecture you."

Half-jesting, half-serious, but sinking before the frown and the sheer power of a pointed index finger, the small brunette in the tailored suit, the brown silk stockings and oxfords to match, dropped cross-legged, Lahleet-fashion, to the floor. But when Harrington continued to frown so fiercely, the playful twitch went away from the corners of her mouth. She betrayed a guilty flush and stared up sober and submissive, as to someone infinitely older, who had the right to castigate her verbally.