"I'm Millie Tavish," she said. "I suppose you've heard about me?"
She spoke with a curious accent. When she told him her name he recognised it as Scottish, on which American was imposed.
"I haven't heard about you," he said. "I presume you are going up-country to a missionary station. I'm sorry—I do not like lady missionaries in the country."
She laughed a shrill, not unmusical laugh.
"Oh, I guess I'm not a missionary," she said complacently. "I'm the queen."
Sanders looked at her anxiously. To women in his country he had conscientious objections; mad women he barred.
"I'm the queen," she repeated, evidently pleased with the sensation she had created. "My! I never thought I should be a queen. My grandfather used to be a gardener of Queen Victoria's before he came to N'York——"
"But——" said the staggered Commissioner.
"It was like this," she rattled on. "When Toby was in Philadelphia at the theological seminary I was a help at Miss Van Houten's—that's the boarding house—an' Toby paid a lot of attention to me. I thought he was joshin' when he told me he was going to be a king, but he's made good all right. And I've written to him every week, and he's sent me the money to come along——"
"Toby?" said Sanders slowly. "Who is Toby?"