"I don't believe it," I said. "If he'd been a detective, he wouldn't
have torn up my check."
"Quite so," retorted the young woman, and there the conversation
stopped.
I wonder if she was right? If I thought she was, I'd devote the rest of
my life to seeing Ian Maclaren at home; but I can't help feeling that
she was wrong. The man was so entirely courteous, after I finally
cornered him, that I don't see how it could have been any one else than
the one I sought; for, however much one may object to this popular
author's dialect, England has sent us nothing finer in the way of a
courteous gentleman than he.