Mildred hesitated, but reflected that she really owed him an explanation.
“She protected me when I was in trouble,” she said softly.
“Ah; that’s like the dear old girl. Do you know, I’ve an idea that when I’m down and out she’ll relent and come to my assistance with a fatted calf? It would be just like her. I’ve known of others she befriended. Her hobby is to help poor girls. There was that Leighton girl, for instance, whose smuggling, murderous father was imprisoned for life. The poor little thing hadn’t a friend in the world till mother took her in hand and put her in a training school for nurses. The mother wrote me how interested she was in that case. Her protege did her credit, it seems, for the child turned out a very good nurse, who—who—”
He suddenly paused, flushed red and stared at the girl uncertainly.
“You say your name is—Travers?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, casting down her eyes.
“Not—Leighton?”
“Cannot you pull the cork, Señor Runyon? I am so thirsty!” cried Inez quickly, to save her friend from disclosing her secret. But big Runyon was bright enough, in spite of his peculiarities. He read Mildred’s confusion and suspected the truth, but was too considerate to press the question.
“The cork is obstinate,” said he; “so we won’t argue with the thing,” and he struck the neck of the bottle against a corner of the seat and broke it so neatly that not a drop of the contents was spilled. Then he took a cup from the shelf and poured out some of the wine.
“It’s a native vintage,” said he, “but it ought to be mellow and mild after all the years it has lain here.”