“Sure,” said he. “But my name’s Roger Wade—not Chang.”
“And mine’s Beatrice Richmond.”
“That’s plenty to go on. Now, hide in the bushes. We must hurry up the fire.” And he cried to Hank: “Come on, Vanderkief!”
Miss Richmond’s teeth were chattering; but she delayed long enough to engage her brother aside a moment. “His name’s Wade, not Chang.”
“Good Heaven!” muttered Heck. “What’s the meaning of all this? Beatrice, who on earth is the fellow? Why, you aren’t even sure of his name!”
“Mind your own business,” said Beatrice tranquilly. “He’s an old friend of yours—of mine—of the family—an artist we met in Paris. Don’t forget that.”
Heck clinched his fists and drew his features into a frown that would have looked dangerous had his chin been stronger. “I’ll not stand for it. I’m going to take you bang off home.”
“And put Hank on to the whole business?—and end the engagement?—and disgrace me?—and yourself?—and the family?” Everyone of these cumulative reasons why Heck could not refuse to conspire she emphasized with a little laugh. She ended: “Oh, I guess not. I care less about it than you do. Be careful, or I’ll give it away, myself. It would be such fun!”
Hector, despite his anger, gave an appreciative grin, for he had a sense of humor.
“Behave yourself,” said Beatrice. “Go help get wood.”