“Sorry,” he replied, “but I’m not traveling under my real name just now.”
“And won’t you tell even me? Whisper it?” There was a pout on her red lips. Miss Manzanita Canby could be a wretched little flirt when she wished. Ask Crip or Limpy or Lucky or Ed or Toddlebike—gentlemen riders of well-known integrity.
“Sorry to seem rude,” The Falcon held out, “but I must refuse even you.” To whisper into that little pink ear a secret kept from all others in the world was a temptation indeed, but the flunky held to his rule.
“Falcon the Flunky is our mystery man, Miss Canby,” put in Hunter Mangan in tones that showed he was not quite sure whether he liked the unexpected situation or not.
“Oh, that’s delightful!” she cried. “I’ve always wanted to know a mystery man! And now I don’t want to know your name. If you ever begin to tell me I’ll stick my fingers in my ears. Because—I’ll tell you why—I’m going to be a detective and find out what the mystery is about you!”
“Ha-ha!” and Mangan laughed. “Quite an idea. And now let’s go back to the commissary tent, Miss Canby. I’ll show you——”
“No! No! Not yet. Please! I want Falcon the Flunky to show me around the culinary department first. You and Mart go see whatever you had in mind, Mr. Mangan. I want to begin on my solution of the mystery.”
“But—er—that is, Miss Canby——”
“Go on, please—I’ll be over directly. Mart wants to see the stable tent, I know. He’s crazy about horses. I’ll be over soon—really, truly!”
Martin thereupon braced up and took his cue. “Aw, come on, Mr. Mangan, an’ let ’er alone. You don’t know ’er like I do. She always gets whatever she wants.”