“No, I don’t,” said the detective crossly, casting an appealing look at Geoffrey.

“How sad that is,” said McVay philosophically.  “You don’t even remember her name, and at one time—­well, well.”

Or again, he would exclaim brightly, studying the detective’s countenance.

“Ah, Henderson, I see the mark of Sweeney’s bullet has entirely gone.  I was afraid it would leave a scar.  Tell my sister that yarn.  I think it would interest her.”

“Yes, do, Mr. Picklebody,” said the girl politely and McVay, when he had sufficiently tortured his victim, would at length launch out into a story himself.  Miserable as the detective was under this sort of treatment, it soon appeared that McVay’s ease and facility had made an impression on him, and that he looked at his prisoner with a sort of wondering admiration.

“Now, Holland, are we all ready?  Cecilia, have you got your little bag?” he began when they were about to depart.  “Holland, my dear fellow, don’t think me interfering if I ask whether you have locked to all the doors and windows?  Tramps and thieves are so apt to break into shut-up houses, and it would be such a pity if anything happened to any of your pretty things.  Ah, what an expanse of snow.  Beautiful, isn’t it?  You may talk about your tropical scenery, Hen, but we shan’t see anything finer than this the world over.  What a contrast the south will be though, eh, old man?” and, drawing the detective’s arm through his, leaning heavily upon him meanwhile, McVay moved forward, talking volubly.

Cecilia and Geoffrey hesitated a moment looking up at the house that had seen such momentous changes in their lives.

“When we come back, it will be spring,” said Geoffrey softly.

“Oh,” said the girl in rather a shaky voice, “you like me well enough to ask me to stay again?”

“Well enough,” said Geoffrey, “to ask you to stay forever.”