and it was too bad they should reveal fear, as they had
since his monosyllabic exclamation.

"Are--are you suggesting--"

"Nothing, Miss Copley--nothing! Frankly and honestly! If you will
permit me to say so, I think you are trying to make a mountain out of
this molehill yourself. I haven't a doubt in the world that your
nephew will turn up with every minute of last evening properly
accounted for." He welcomed the slow reversion to normal of her
expression. "Come, if I'm a dictaphone, let's pretend I'm turned off!
Shall we talk of something else than murder? One might as well dine to
jazz!"

That brought a smile to her lips--a quavery, uncertain little smile but
an augury of better ones to come.

"With all my heart," she agreed. "What are your conversational
preferences?"

"Anything but shop. May I ask you a personal question?"

"Personal questions are always the most interesting."

"I've heard you addressed once or twice as 'Miss Ocky,' and I've been
wondering just what the abbreviation stands for?"

"Oh! You've landed squarely on a sore spot, but no matter. My father,
bless him, was one of the dearest men that ever lived, but now and then
he would get some particularly quaint idea into his head and proceed to
carry it out in spite of every opposition. I arrived in this world on
a chilly autumn day and was duly presented to my father's gaze. He was
quite inexperienced about babies and it's recorded of him that he
stared at me aghast and said: 'My gad, what a bleak-looking object!'
That inspired some by-standing lunatic to observe that I doubtless took
after the month, and my father promptly exclaimed: 'October! What a
jolly fine name for her. We'll call her October!'" Miss Ocky sighed
resignedly. "They let him get away with it. I was christened October.
It has the sole merit of being distinctive!"

"My golly!" Creighton had listened to the concluding phrases of her
anecdote with wonderment writ large on his face. He carefully put his
knife and fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair while he
continued to regard her with a rapt expression. "Are _you_ October
Copley?"

"Yes!" laughed the lady.

"_The_ October Copley?"

"I'm quite unique, I believe," said Miss Ocky cheerfully.

"Did _you_ write 'Thibetan Trails,' 'Passages from Persia' and those
bully Chinese things with the queer title?"

"'Chiliads of China.' Yes, I wrote 'em. Don't sit there and tell me
you've read them!"