“To be sure—I was carrying an old wallet of Bailey’s. Our initials are the same, too.” He fell to musing, wrinkling his brows. But instead of telling me his name, he went on presently: “You are master of a somewhat unusual household, Dale. I am vastly interested. You’re a lucky dog to have such a Hebe for a protégée as the girl Wanza, such an infant prodigy as that young scamp, who shows fine discrimination, and glowers at me from the kitchen door, for an adopted son,—and who is the interesting lady patient on whom Wanza waits and who is shut up in a Blue Beard’s closet next my room? I have a sly sure instinct that tells me she is the most wonderful of the lot.”
The blood rushed to my face. The leer with which he accompanied his words was rakish, and his handsome face smirked disgustingly.
“She is an unfortunate neighbor of mine, who was crippled by a falling tree the night of the storm,” I answered coldly.
He gave me a quizzical glance, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed laughingly:
“Beauty in distress! Don Quixote to the rescue. You’re the sort of chap, I fancy, Dale, who goes about tilting at windmills. You belong to a past generation. But it is lucky for me I stumbled across you. Well, I care not to pry into your Blue Beard’s closet—the girl Wanza is a piquant enough little devil for me—”
“Just speak more respectfully of her, if you must speak at all,” I interrupted with heat.
“Don Quixote, Don Quixote,” he murmured, wagging a broad finger at me, and shaking his head playfully.
I said something beneath my breath, and rose from my chair hastily.
“Wait! Wait!” he cried. “Don’t let your choler rise. Sit down. We will not discuss the ladies. I was about to tell you my name, and give you my credentials—”
He broke off abruptly. Joey was issuing from the elder bushes piping on his flute. As I listened, a voice from the Dingle caught up the refrain, a voice high and sweet and clear.