"Let poor Owen alone. He is good and kind even if he doesn't care for
Cyrus."
"Look here! Why don't you ever say any of these nice things to me— the things, you say to dogs—and secretaries?"
"Because I've promised to marry you—some day—and it is fatal to let a husband—even a futurity husband—know that you admire him."
"Well, as long as you do, it is all right."
A half mile down the main road to Westbury a runabout was drawn up, and a converted gypsy was alternately pretending to repair an imaginary break and relieving his nerve-strain by pacing the road. Balthazar's fantastic garments had given way to a plain sack suit and motor duster, but the profit of his employment by Raymond Owen was worth the discomfort of becoming "civilized."
The muttering of a distant motor made him fall to his knees and, wrench in hand, wiggle hastily under the machine.
To all appearance he was bitterly pre-occupied with the woes of a stalled tourist when a motorcycle chugged to a stop beside the runabout and Owen called him.
"I thought you had failed of our appointment, master," he said eagerly as he crawled out. "I have waited for more than half an hour."
"It is sad that you should be inconvenienced, old friend," answered
Owen.
"I have done what you commanded me, master," Balthazar said with an ingratiating smile. "I have found them."