“It is not my real name, you know,” said the person outside the door. “My real name’s Florence. Young Mr. Jason gave me the Rose Marie name. I’m glad you like it. I do too. So does Miss Leylan. What are you in there for?”

“For having been rude to a sergeant of police.”

“Oh! That’ll be my father. He doesn’t like people being rude to him. Why were you rude?”

Bony related the incident of his arrest. Then he chuckled, and unexpectedly, the person outside laughed with him.

“You didn’t mean to be rude, did you?” she asked, swiftly serious.

“No, of course not. I was only trying to be funny. Can I come to the door now? It’s rather difficult talking to you from here.”

“You may.”

The large grey eyes examined him with even greater interest when his face was brought to the level of the door grille, and, noticing the trickles of perspiration on his dark brown face, Rose Marie said with anxiety in her voice:

“Is it hot in there?”

“Somewhat,” replied Bony ruefully. “How is it out there?”

“Goodo here in the shade. Would you like a drink of tea?”

Henodded, his eyes wide with anticipation and containing a little admiration, too, for Rose Marie’s hair was light brown and appeared to reflect the sunlight beyond the shadow of the jail. Her face was perfectly oval and fresh and winsome.

“I’ll make you a drink of tea,” she told him solemnly. “You must be thirsty in that hot old place. You wait! The kettle’s boiling. I promised Mother I’d have it boiling by the time she got back from the parsonage. I won’t be long.”

He watched her cross to the rear of the station, noted her firm carriage and steady, deliberate walk, a mannerism of movement evidently copied from her father. There in the sunlight her hair gleamed, the twin plaits hanging down her back seemingly ropes of new gold. Ten minutes later he watched her return, carrying a tray covered with a cloth. She set it down upon the ground before the door, and then looked up at him and said firmly: