Chinese Orange Mystery Read Free Page A

kind in the world, you know. It’s in the collection of the late Arthur Hind, of Rochester. King George needs it to complete his collection of British colonies—”
    “You mean,” gasped Miss Diversey, “King George is a stamp-collector ?”
    “Yes, indeed. Many great men are. Mr. Roosevelt, the Agha Khan—”
    “Imagine that!”
    “Now, you take Mr. Kirk. Donald Kirk, I mean. Now, he has one of the finest collections of Chinese stamps in the world. Specializes, you know. Mr. Macgowan collects locals—local posts, you know; stamps which were issued by states or communities for local postage before there was a national postage system.”
    Miss Diversey sighed. “It’s certainly very interesting. Mr. Kirk collects other things, too, doesn’t he?”
    “Oh, yes. Precious stones. I haven’t much to do with that, you see. He keeps that collection in a bank-vault. I devote most of my time to keeping the stamp collection in apple-pie order, and doing confidential work for Mr. Kirk in connection with The Mandarin Press.”
    “Isn’t that interesting, now!”
    “Isn’t it.”
    “It’s certainly very interesting,” said Miss Diversey again. How on earth, she thought fiercely, did we ever get to talk about these things? “I read a book once published by The Mandarin.”
    “Did you, really?”
    “ Death of a Rebel , by some outlandish name.”
    “Oh! Merejinski. He was one of Felix Berne’s discoveries—a Russian. He’s always scouting around in Europe, you know, looking for foreign authors—Mr. Berne, I mean. Well.” Osborne fell silent.
    “Well,” said Miss Diversey. And she fell silent.
    Osborne fingered his chin. Miss Diversey fingered her hair.
    “Well,” said Miss Diversey a little nervously. “They do publish the artiest books, don’t they?”
    “Indeed they do!” cried Osborne. “I don’t doubt Mr. Berne’s come back with a trunkful of new manuscripts. He always does.”
    “Does he, now.” Miss Diversey sighed; it was getting worse, much worse. Osborne regarded her crisp cleanness with admiring eyes—admiring and respectful. Then Miss Diversey brightened. “I don’t suppose Mr. Berne knows about Miss Temple, does he?”
    “Eh?” Osborne started. “Oh, Miss Temple. Well, I suppose Mr. Kirk’s written him about her new book. Very nice, Miss Temple is.”
    “Do you think so? I think so, too.” Miss Diversey’s broad shoulders quivered. “Well!”
    “You’re not going so soon?” asked Osborne in a dashed voice.
    “Well, really,” murmured Miss Diversey, rising, “I must. Dr. Kirk’s probably in a fit by now. All that exertion! Well … It’s been very pleasant talking to you, Mr. Osborne.” She moved toward the door.
    Osborne swallowed. “Uh—Miss Diversey.” He took a timid step toward her and, in alarm, she retreated, breathing very fast.
    “Why, Mr. Osborne! What—what—?”
    “Could you—would you—I mean, are you—”
    “What, Mr. Osborne?” murmured Miss Diversey archly.
    “Are you doing anything tonight?”
    “Oh,” said Miss Diversey. “Why, I guess not, Mr. Osborne.”
    “Then would you—go to the movies with me tonight?”
    “Oh,” said Miss Diversey again. “I’d love to.”
    “The new Barrymore picture’s playing at Radio City,” said Osborne eagerly. “I hear it’s very good. It got four stars.”
    “John or Lionel?” demanded Miss Diversey, frowning.
    Osborne looked surprised. “John.”
    “Well, I should say I’d love to!” exclaimed Miss Diversey. “I’ve always said John’s my favorite. I like Lionel, too, but John …” She raised her eyes ceiling-ward in a sort of ecstasy.
    “I don’t know,” muttered Osborne. “It seems to me in his last few pictures he’s looked rather old. Time will tell, you know, Miss Diversey.”
    “Why, Mr . Osborne!” said Miss Diversey. “I do believe you’re jealous!”
    “Jealous? Me? Pshaw—”
    “Well, I think he’s simply divine,” said Miss Diversey with cunning. “And