“All about what?” Jessie started to interrupt.
“I’m going to tell you, Jessie, dear, but we must get started first,” and she clapped her hands impatiently while Mr. Payton gave the necessary orders and the chauffeur started the motor.
“Oh, Phil, Phil, do stop staring so!” she cried, hysterically. “I know you are going to be awfully cut up when you learn that your much-abused and misunderstood sister was right, after all.”
“Lucile,” cried Evelyn, in exasperation. “If you don’t stop talking in riddles and get down to plain United States that everybody can understand——”
“Oh, I will,” gasped Lucile. “Did any of you see anything unusual about that chateau?” she questioned. “Didn’t it look—well, rather familiar to you?” 162
“There she goes again!” wailed Evelyn, and Jessie added, “We were too busy looking at you to notice the old house. What’s that got to do with your story, anyway?”
“You’d find out if you would only have a little patience. I’ve a good mind not to tell you, anyway,” she finished, rather childishly, for, you see, in spite of the excitement, or, more probably, because of it, Lucile was very tired and a finicky audience didn’t appeal to her. She wanted to tell her story her own way.
“Go ahead, Lucy; forgive us!” said Jessie, all compunction at once. “You’ve made us so excited we can’t wait, that’s all.”
“Yes, we promise not to interrupt again,” added Evelyn.
“Oh, go ahead and tell your story, Lucy; cut out the sob stuff!” This from an unsympathetic brother, who should have withered next minute beneath the scathing searchlight of scorn turned his way.