She was looking at him, quizzically, still laughing. One little step forward she took.
"Amos," she said, and in the tone was the indulgence of a mother, though the man was years her senior, "Amos, don't you think you two had better meet? This is my brother Professor Amos Bulkeley, of the Smithsonian Institute," she said, turning to Stamford.
Her brother swept his big frame about with the cheeriest of smiles and extended his hand.
"You're the local editor, I suppose," he said, in a gentle voice. "We've come to you for help—naturally. Appealing to a newspaper for help is a habit we all have, from politicians up to ordinary burglars."
"So long as you're not collecting," grinned Stamford, "my resources are at your command. My week's accounts show that last week my charity expenses were seven dollars and twenty-five cents. To date that's about my net income per week."
"It's only information we're collecting," explained the girl. "We——"
"Excuse me, dear." Her brother stopped her sternly. "You haven't yet met Mr.—Mr.——"
"Morton Stamford," said the editor.
"Mr. Stamford, my dear. Mr. Stamford, this is my sister Isabel, as yet possessing the same ultimate name as myself. But there's still hope."
"I'm certain of it," murmured Stamford over her hand.