"She 's a sensitive, high-strung girl whom the slightest breath of scandal would fairly kill. I can't let her name be dragged into this mess; I can't answer her note, and send the reply away from under your very nose without a word to you. And the reporters! Gracious heavens! Swift, Stodger wanted to know what to do with 'em: for pity's sake, tell him to kill 'em!"
Again I interrupted. I trust that I may in all modesty record that I have more than a spark of the feelings to which the young fellow made such a passionate appeal.
"Look here, Maillot, has the young lady a companion?"
"Yes—usually; a young lady cousin who lives with her."
"Very well. If they happen to be together now, we can settle the matter quite easily. Answer her note; request the two of them to come here in a half-hour. Within that time we can get rid of the reporters, and you can—well, you can collect yourself. If your present expression is an index to what you are likely to say, this will be no place for a young lady—for the next thirty minutes, anyhow."
He caught and wrung my hand.
"Swift, you 're a damn good fellow!" he said impulsively, and hurried back to his seat.
However, I did not forget that I had not heard this young man's story; nor did I fail to consider that he was a lawyer, and hence possessed of advantages for appreciating and intelligently weighing all the chances for and against his sweetheart becoming involved.
As Maillot dropped into his chair, Stodger could no longer contain himself. Drawing me into the hall, though the door was left wide open, he said, in a whisper that was heavy with importance:
"You 'd never guess whose coachman it was."