"Why, don't you know, mother? He is the assistant editor of the Post, and is going to be editor just the minute Mr. West retires. For you see, mother, everybody says that he writes the most wonderful articles, although I assure you, a year ago—"
"Yes, but who is he? Where does he come from? Who are his people?"
"Oh, I see. That is what you mean. Well, he comes from New York, where he led the most interesting literary sort of life, studying all the time, except when he was doing articles for the great reviews, or helping a lady up there to write a thesaurus. You see, he was fitting himself to compose a great work—"
"Who are his people?"
"Oh, that!" said Sharlee. "Well, that question is not so easy to answer as you might think. It opens up a peculiar situation: to begin with, he is a sort of an orphan, and—"
"How do you mean, a sort of an orphan?"
"You see, that is just where the peculiar part comes in. There is the heart of the whole mystery, and yet right there is the place where I must be reticent with you, mother, for though I know all about it, it was told to me confidentially—professionally, as my aunt's agent—and therefore—"
"Do you mean that you know nothing about his people?"
"I suppose it might be stated, crudely, in that way, but—"
"And knowing nothing about who or what he was, you simply picked him up at the boarding-house, and admitted him to your friendship?"