"Crazy? He's not crazy!" I exclaimed indignantly, thinking of her pajamas. "And he's no more fool than I am!"
He fell back with a grunt. "Oh, well, I know—but—"
He coughed. By Jove, he seemed disappointed, somehow!
I proceeded calmly: "Real truth is, the beggar's a notorious criminal, known to the police as Foxy Grandpa—pretends all sorts of things about people, don't you know."
"My dear Lightnut,"—he was staring at me, mouth distended—"why—how the devil do you know this?"
I inhaled deliberately. "Awfully simple, don't you know," I responded quietly; and I let him wait till I had blown six rings. "Fact is, I'm the one sent him to jail!"
"You!"—his laugh was frankly amused, incredulous.
"Oh, yes!"—carelessly—"found the fellow thieving in my rooms the other night and called in police—oh, they recognized him in a minute!"
He looked floored. "Well, what do you think of that?" he murmured slowly. Then his face flushed and he sat erect. "And so that's all the crazier the ruffian is—that's the kind of smart Alex that's been trying to get gay with me—with me!" He started up, snorting like a war-horse—"Huh! Well, two can play at that game, and"—his eyes twinkled wrathfully—"I'll show him who's got the best hand! I'll just—"
The rest trailed off in a mutter. He had dropped beside the telephone again, his cigar crushed firmly in the corner of his mouth, his gray mustache bristling aggressively. I tried to trace the family resemblance to Frances, but clashed if I could see a single point. And while I was thinking of this, he got his number.