“Perfes’r—” he began.
“But I am the janitor; am I not?” Blynn smiled.
“Am I not!” he mimicked, “‘Am-I-not’ ain’t never been no janitor.... ‘Am I not!’” he got a deal of amusement out of the phrase. “Knew y’ was a profess’r all the time. Wharf watchman tol’ me. Said you was a smart gab-fester, too. He’s heard you—a Socialist, he is.”
“Lately,” wrote Blynn, “he has been seeking my advice on a number of family matters, leading up to hints for loans. An unkempt, overgrown daughter came to my rooms yesterday with a note. I was stone-cold; but it almost made me ill.
“And now ‘Evil’ has found me out. He objects at the hospital because of my card on a bunch of roses; and threatens to sue me for personal assault; I presume he will complete the charge by adding alienation of his wife’s affections! A book I may have been, raised thence to a daily journal, but, Leverings all, I appeal to you for promotion; assault and alienation are right human qualities.
“Faithfully yours,
“Allen Blynn.
“I am on the trail of the Lady.”
The Leverings agreed that the “Lady of the Interruption” was a delightful mystery—all except Gorgas; but she said little at home. She put the case to Bea Wilcox, and to Bardek.
“What do I think of her?” Bea echoed her inquiry. “I think she’s no lady at all.”
“That’s what I think. I—” Gorgas began eagerly.