A Fool and His Money

by George Barr McCutcheon

He smiled mysteriously. "You were not thinking of the workmen just now, were you?"

"Certainly," said I, coldly. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing, I suppose," said he resignedly.

I hesitated. "Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you driving at?"

He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. "Isn't it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended from the old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!"

I became wary. "Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend from somebody."

"I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances—"

"Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly natural."

We lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching him rather combatively, as who would anticipate the move of an adversary.

"Perfect rot," said I, at last, without rhyme or reason.