"Maybe she's got a bad complexion," ventured Mr. Jones.
"Who? My girl Queenie? Not on your—" began Alf, bristling.
"I mean the woman up at Mrs. Nixon's," explained Mr. Jones hastily.
Harry Squires had taken no part in the conversation up to this juncture. He had been ruminating. His inevitable—you might almost say, his indefatigable—pipe had gone out four or five times.
"Say, Anderson," he broke in abruptly, "has it ever occurred to you that there might be something back of it that ought to be investigated?" The flare of the match he was holding over the bowl of his pipe revealed an eager twinkle in his eyes.
"There you go, talkin' foolishness again," said Anderson. "I guess there ain't anything back of it 'cept a face, an' she's got a right to have a face, ain't she?"
"I mean the reason for wearing a veil that completely obscures her face—all the time. They say she never takes it off, even in the house."
"Who told you that?"
"Angie Nixon. She says she believes she sleeps in it."
"How does she deduce that?" demanded Anderson, idly fingering the badge of the New York Detective Association, which for obvious reasons,—it being a very hot night,—was attached to his suspenders.