"Now then," said Sharlee.
So the three sat down and held a council of war as to how little Doctor Queed, the young man who wouldn't pay his board, was to be brought into personal contact with Charlotte Lee Weyland, the grim and resolute collector. Various stratagems were proposed, amid much merriment. But the collector herself adhered to her original idea of a masterly waiting game.
"Only trust me," said she. "He can't spend the rest of his life shut up in that room in a state of dreadful siege. Hunger or thirst will force him out; he'll want to buy some of those apples, or to mail a letter—"
Fifi, who sat on the arm of Sharlee's chair, laughed and coughed. "He never writes any. And he never has gotten but one, and that came to-night."
"Fifi, did you take your syrup before supper? Well, go and take it this minute."
"Mother, it doesn't do any good."
"The doctor gave it to you, my child, and it's going to make you better soon."
Sharlee followed Fifi out with troubled eyes. However, Mrs. Paynter at once drew her back to the matter in hand.
"Sharlee, do you know what would be the very way to settle this little difficulty? To write him a formal, businesslike letter. We'll—"
"No, I've thought of that, Aunt Jennie, and I don't believe it's the way. A letter couldn't get to the bottom of the matter. You see, we want to find out something about this man, and why he isn't paying, and whether there is reason to think he can and will pay. Besides, I think he needs a talking to on general principles."