“Oo—­er,” she gasped faintly.  “That ain’t never for me.”

“Yes, it is, Gertrude,” I said.  “It was specially chosen for you by a lady of unimpeachable taste.”

I held it out to her, and she accepted it with shaking hands, like a newly-made peeress receiving her tiara.

“My Gawd,” she whispered reverently; “ain’t it just a dream!”

To be perfectly honest, it seemed to me more in the nature of a nightmare, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged any such hostile criticism out of me.

“I think it will suit you very nicely, Gertie,” I said.  “It’s got just that dash of colour which Edith Terrace wants.”

“Yer reely mean it?” she asked eagerly.  “Yer reely think I’ll look orl right in it?  ’Course it do seem a bit funny like with this ’ere frock, but I got a green velveteen wot belonged to Mrs. Oldbury’s niece.  It won’t ’alf go with that.”

“It won’t indeed,” I agreed heartily.  Then, looking up from my eggs and bacon, I added:  “By the way, Gertie, I’ve never thanked you for your letter.  I had no idea you could, write so well.”

“Go on!” said Gertie doubtfully; “you’re gettin’ at me now.”

“No, I’m not,” I answered.  “It was a very nice letter.  It said just what you wanted to say and nothing more.  That’s the whole art of good letter-writing.”  Then a sudden idea struck me.  “Look here, Gertie,” I went on, “will you undertake a little job for me if I explain it to you?”

She nodded.  “Oo—­rather.  I’d do any think for you.”

“Well, it’s something I may want you to do for me after I’ve left.”

Her face fell.  “You ain’t goin’ away from ’ere—­not for good?”

“Not entirely for good,” I said.  “I hope to do a certain amount of harm to at least one person before I come back.”  I paused.  “It’s just possible,” I continued, “that after I’ve gone somebody may come to the house and ask questions about me—­how I spent my time while I was here, and that sort of thing.  If they should happen to ask you, I want you to tell them that I used to stay in bed most of the day and go to the theatre in the evening.  Do you mind telling a lie for me?”

Gertie looked at me in obvious amazement.  “I don’t think,” she observed.  “Wotjer taike me for—­a Sunday-school teacher?”

“No, Gertie,” I said gravely; “no girl with your taste in hats could possibly be a Sunday-school teacher.”  Then pushing away my plate and lighting a cigarette, I added:  “I’ll leave you a stamped addressed envelope and a telegraph form.  You can send me the wire first to say if any one has called, and then write me a line afterwards by post telling me what they were like and what they said.”

“I can do that orl right,” she answered eagerly.  “If they talks to Mrs. Oldbury I’ll listen at the keyhole.”

I nodded.  “It’s a practice that the best moralists condemn,” I said, “but after all, the recording angel does it.”  Then getting up from the table, I added:  “You might tell Mrs. Oldbury I should like to see her.”