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The lady shook her head impatiently.

"My God, Featherstone! It's pretty tough that a woman can't take her chow for an airing without being pestered by a super-cop."

"Your profanity and your slang are deplorable," said Featherstone good-naturedly. "I heard some news about you the other day which rather surprised me."

She looked at him, suspicion and dislike in her eyes.

"What was that?" she asked.

"They told me you were married, both ecclesiastically and civilly. Who is the happy man?"

"You're dreaming," she said contemptuously. "You people at the Yard are too ready to believe ill of anyone. No, I'm not married, Featherstone, though I don't know what would happen if you pressed me very hard. I've always had a weakness for the pretty boy type. I like 'em that way; they're not so clever as the ugly ones."

She looked round at him under her drooping lids.

"What do you say, Featherstone?" she asked with mock earnestness.

"I hate to disappoint you, Fay," he replied, "but I have my family to consider. But seriously, who is the happy man?"