Mr. Percival glanced inquiringly at his guard.
“That's his name, Miss,” said that worthy. “And that's one of the three reasons why he's got them muscular arms you're lookin' at. Sorry, though, but my orders are not to allow any one to speak to him.”
“Are you crazy, Ruth?” cried the older lady, aghast. “It's the stowaway every one is talking about. The one who tried to blow up the ship.”
The young lady returned Percival's smile,—rather a diffident, uncertain effort, to be sure, but still a smile,—and murmured something about night before last at the Alcazar Grand.
“What are you saying, Ruth? Do you mean to say you met this man at the Alcazar Grand?”
“Yes, Aunt Julia,” said the other wrinkling her pretty forehead in perplexity. “He—he danced with me.”
“He—you danced with him?” gasped the horrified Aunt Julia.
“Don't you remember? Phil Morton introduced him to us. I—I can't believe my eyes.”
“I can't believe mine,” snapped the elder woman. “I never saw this fellow before in my life. The idea! Phil Morton having a friend like—You are mistaken. And people are staring at us.”
“Just the same,” said her niece, stubbornly, “I did dance with him, and, what's more, I danced more than once with him. Didn't I, Mr. Percival?”