"Don't go too fast, we mustn't get too far ahead of Sard; I don't like to leave her alone with that—that man."
Shipman raised his eyebrows. "Why," using her undertones, "isn't he the chauffeur? He's all right, isn't he?"
Minga was mysterious; a curious womanly accent of responsibility sat strangely on this little figure, with pretty legs in trim knickerbockers and puttees, and dark head of bobbed hair.
"He's just plain queer," objected Minga. "You'd never guess that the Judge and Miss Reely know nothing about him; that man, you see, is one of Sard's pickups."
"Pickups." Shipman frowned, while he smiled.
Minga luxuriated in the irregularity of the thing. "Oh," she protested, "you may think you know Sard, but you don't—nobody," said Minga solemnly, "knows her as I do. Of course," the little bobbed head shook wisely, "Sard wouldn't do anything—er—well, you know."
Shipman tried to control his humor. "Of course not," he echoed.
"Just the same," Minga was dramatic, "she goes around picking up queer people and sick dogs and babies and spending her money on them and getting them into hospitals and oh, awful things," said Minga, darkly. "She knows girls that haven't husbands and well——" she gave a gesture which though vague was eloquent.
The lawyer led her on. "So Miss Sard picked up this vagabond."