"You Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy?" she dropped a curtsy. "I come find-a you."
"So I see," said Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy, dryly. "And now that you've found me, what do you want?"
"I want tell-a your fortune," Patty glibly dropped into the lingo she and Conny had practised on the school the night before. "You cross-a my hand with silver—I tell-a your fortune."
This was no situation of Conny's choosing, but she was always staunchly game.
"Nice-a fortune," she backed Patty up. "Tall young lady. Ver' beautiful."
"Well, of all the nerve!"
Mr. Gilroy leaned back in his chair and regarded them severely, but with a gleam of amusement flickering through.
"Where did you get my name?" he demanded.
Patty waved her hand airily toward the open window and the distant horizon—as it showed between the coal sheds and the dynamo building.
"Gypsy peoples, dey learn signs," she explained lucidly. "Sky, wind, clouds—all talk—but you no understand. I get message for you—Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy—and we come from long-a way off to tell-a your fortune." With a pathetic little gesture, she indicated their damaged foot gear. "Ver' tired. We travel far."