never depend upon it.'

'Everything just how you feel at the time, eh?' he said. 'You wouldn't
care what you did if you had a mind to do it.'

'No,' she answered. 'I shouldn't care in the least what I did if I had
a mind to do it.'

There was the faintest mimicry of his half Scotch, half Australian
accent in her voice--a little husky, with now and then unsuspected
modulations. She looked at him and the gleam in her eyes and her
strange smile made him stare at her in a sort of fascination. Joan knew
those tricks of hers and knew that they boded mischief. She got up at
the moment saying that people were going and that she must bid Lady
Tallant good-night.

Then the Premier's wife came up shyly; she wanted to thank Lady Bridget
for her singing. It had been as good as the Opera--They sometimes had
good opera companies in Leichardt's Town, etcetera, etcetera.

Lady Bridget made the prettiest curtsey, which bewildered the Premier's
wife and gave her food for speculation as to the manners and customs of
the British aristocracy. She had always understood you only curtsied to
Royalty. But she took it as a great compliment and never said anything
but kind words about Bridget ever after.

Colin McKeith escorted Mrs Gildea to her cab and as they waited in the
vestibule, obtained from her a few more particulars of Lady Bridget
O'Hara's parentage and conditions. But he said not a word implying that
he had discovered her identity with the author of the typed letter.