Then she returned to the library for Mr. Burke and led him toward the
same place.
"Eliza is just beyond that gap in the hedge," she said, and turned away.
"Wait a moment, please," he said, detaining her. "On second thought I
would like you to come with me, for your tact may be of great
assistance. Have you spoken much with Eliza?"
"Not at all, I think. Beth has talked with her, but I have scarcely been
near her since she came here."
"You are willing to come?"
"I shall be glad to."
"The poet Saxe," said Mr. Burke, walking through the gap beside Louise,
"has never been properly appreciated by his countrymen, although since
his death his verses are in greater demand than while he lived. Do you
care for them?"
"I don't know Saxe very well," she answered, observing that they were
approaching a place where Eliza was bending over a rose-bush. "But one
or two of his poems are so amusing that they linger in my memory."
Eliza turned at the sound of their voices and gave them a quick glance.
But the next moment she resumed her occupation of cutting roses.
"The man's greatest fault was his habit of punning," remarked the
detective, watching the girl's form as he drew nearer. "It is that which
blinded his contemporaries to his real talents.
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