"Are you actually the great Anderson Crow? Do you know, I have always thought of you as a fictitious character—like Sherlock Holmes. Are you really real? Do I look upon you in the flesh?"
Mr. Crow was momentarily overwhelmed.
"Oh, I—I guess I'm not much different from other men, ma'am. I'm not half as important as folks make me out to be."
"How nice and modest you are! That is the true sign of greatness, Mr. Crow. I might have known that you would be simple."
"Simple?" murmured Anderson, to whom the word had but one meaning. He thought of Willie Jones, the village idiot.
"'Simplicity, thou art a jewel,'" observed the Veiled Lady. "Will you pardon a somewhat leading question, Mr. Crow?"
"Lead on," said he, still a trifle uncertain of himself.
"Who is that man standing against the tree beside you? Is he a friend of yours?"
"Who is—is my what?"
"Your companion. Now he has moved over behind the tree."