The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“What can’t you believe?” he asked, trying not to be too accusing.

“You are even more handsome than they told me,” she declared.

He stared. She smiled, tremulously. He snorted, and then, unable to help himself, began to utter a deep throated chuckle; immediately relief showed in her eyes, and she relaxed too.

“You are more handsome,” she asserted.

“I can’t tell you how proud I am,” Rollison said, and chuckled again. “You are much prettier than you looked from my flat window.”

“You saw me?”

“You intended me to see you,” he stated flatly.

Earnestly, and putting a hand towards him as if to touch his face, she said in that sweet-sounding voice:

“It’s impossible — I can’t even hope to deceive you?” Her eyes were huge.

“It would be fascinating to find out what would happen if you tried,” he remarked. “With most men no doubt you find it easy. Are you busy?”

“Well, not just now.”

“What do you mean, not just now?”

“I was busy, because I wanted to talk to you,” she told him, “and simply didn’t know how to go about it. It’s as pleasant as it’s easy.”

“I’m busy,” he interrupted. “I’ve an urgent job to do.” Her face fell. “Oh,” she said, as if crestfallen. “But we could talk on the way,” he added.

“On the way where?”

“Where I am going. You could come in my car and talk to me while I drive, a process called killing two birds with one stone.”

She gave a funny little shudder, as if not liking what he had said about killing. If possible, her eyes grew even rounder and more huge.

“Are you serious?” she demanded.

“Very serious.”

“Very well,” the girl decided, “I’ll come. Will you remember where I’ve left my car?”

“Yes,” he assured her. “This is where I always have the people who follow me park; that’s how I was able to shake you off so easily.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him dubiously. Then she added earnestly : “I believe you’re pulling my leg.”

“Never!” he breathed.

She got out of her car on the pavement side, pulled the leather apron over the seats, against possible rain, then came round to him, clutching a large handbag made of two-tone canvas matching her suit perfectly. He had half expected her to run away but she showed no sign of that at all. He eased the Bristol away from her car, leaned across to open the far door for her. She got in with easy grace, studying his profile.

“Side face, too?” he inquired.

“In every way,” she assured him.

“Before long I shall feel flattered. Do you mind opening your handbag?”

“Doing what?” she gasped.

“Opening your handbag,” he repeated, pleasantly. “I just want to make as sure as I can that you’re not carrying a gun.” He beamed. “Please.”

She opened the handbag as wide as it would go. Inside was the expected variety of toiletries and make-up articles, a small purse, a thin wad of one pound notes, some keys — and a centre pocket which was fastened by a zip. He touched this with his forefinger, and she opened it.

Inside was a small, pearl-handled automatic.

“Ah,” he breathed.

“I live alone,” she answered. “And I often travel alone.”

“And that pistol keeps you safe and so fills you with confidence, no doubt,” he said. “May I see it?” He took it out of the pocket of the bag and it fitted snugly on the

5

Motor-Cyclist

THERE WAS NO POINT in lying.

Even had he been tempted to, Rollison doubted whether a lie would fool this girl, for his start of surprise had actually made him swing the wheel a fraction, enough to scare a driver who was passing at furious speed on the inside. This man wrenched his wheel and pressed his horn in a long and desperate wail. Rollison straightened out, watched only the road ahead, and said:

“I don’t know.”

“Really, Mr. Rollison!”