The Personal Devil flushed. It was not because of the proffered hand, which he took unhesitatingly and held rather firmly. The blush was unmistakably caused by anger.
“There is no connection whatever,” he stated, grimly enough, “between the truth and Mr. Lake’s organs of speech.”
“Oh!” cried the Ultimate Consumer triumphantly. “So you’re Mr. Beebe?”
“Bransford—Jeff Bransford,” corrected the Personal Devil crustily. He wilfully relapsed to his former slipshod speech. “Beebe, he’s gone to the Pecos work, him and Ballinger. Mr. John Wesley Also-Ran Pringle’s gone to Old Mexico to bring back another bunch of black, long-horned Chihuahuas. You now behold before you the last remaining Rose of Rosebud. But, why Beebe?”
“Why does Mr. Lake hate all of you so, Mr. Bransford?”
“Because we are infamous scoundrels. Why Beebe?”
“I can’t eat with one hand, Mr. Bransford,” she said demurely. He looked at the prisoned hand with a start and released it grudgingly. “Help yourself,” said his hostess cheerfully. “There’s sandwiches, and roast beef and olives, for a mild beginning.”
“Why Beebe?” he said doggedly.
“Help yourself to the salad and then please pass it over this way. Thank you.”