In the office was Peggy, making up some accounts.  She was a pretty, small maiden of twenty-five, neatly dressed in a clean print gown, and looking like a dewy daisy.  Her eyes were blue, her hair the color of ripe corn, and her cheeks were of a delicate rose.  There was something pastoral about Peggy, smacking of meadow lands and milking time.  She should have been a shepherdess looking after her flock rather than a girl toiling in a dingy office.  How such a rural flower ever sprung up amongst London houses was a mystery Jennings could not make out.  And according to her own tale, Peggy had never lived in the country.  What with the noise of fiddling which came from the large hall, and the fact of being absorbed in her work, Peggy never heard the entrance of her lover.  Jennings stole quietly towards her, admiring the pretty picture she made with a ray of dusky sunlight making glory of her hair.

“Who is it?” he asked, putting his hands over her eyes.

“Oh,” cried Peggy, dropping her pen and removing his hands, “the only man who would dare to take such a liberty with me.  Miles, my darling pig!” and she kissed him, laughing.

“I don’t like the last word, Peggy!”

“It’s Papa Le Beau’s favorite word with his pupils,” said Peggy, who always spoke of the dancing-master thus.

“With the addition of darling?”

“No, that is an addition of my own.  But I can remove it if you like.”

“I don’t like,” said Miles, sitting down and pulling her towards him, “come and talk to me, Pegtop.”

“I won’t be called Pegtop, and as to talking, I have far too much work to do.  The lesson will soon be over, and some of the pupils have to take these accounts home.  Then dejeuner will soon be ready, and you know how Margot hates having her well-cooked dishes spoilt by waiting.  But why are you here instead of at work?”

“Hush!” said Miles, laying a finger on her lips.  “Papa will hear you.”

“Not he.  Hear the noise his fiddle is making, and he is scolding the poor little wretches like a game-cock.”

“Does a game-cock scold?” asked Jennings gravely.  “I hope he is not in a bad temper, Peggy.  I have come to ask him a few questions.”

“About your own business?” asked she in a lower tone.

Jennings nodded.  Peggy knew his occupation, but as yet he had not been able to tell Le Beau.

The Frenchman cherished all the traditional hatred of his race for the profession of “mouchard,” and would not be able to understand that a detective was of a higher standing.  Miles was therefore supposed to be a gentleman of independent fortune, and both he and Peggy decided to inform Le Beau of the truth when he had retired from business.  Meanwhile, Miles often talked over his business with Peggy, and usually found her clear way of looking at things of infinite assistance to him in the sometimes difficult cases which he dealt with.  Peggy knew all about the murder in Crooked Lane, and how Miles was dealing with the matter.  But even she had not been able to suggest a clue to the assassin, although she was in full possession of the facts.  “It’s about this new case I wish to speak,” said Jennings.  “By the way, Peggy, you know that woman Maraquito I have talked of?”