"You have a newspaper of some sort, I see," I replied, feeling it useless to explain that I preferred Byron to Webster, and not feeling in the least convinced that Peaches knew of the existence of Daniel as well as of Noah. She pulled out a copy of the Paris Herald from under her arm.
"Not from the coast," she said, "but at least it's printed in American. The boy was a nice kid. He comes from Texas. He showed me a peach of a trick, and I was showing him a new Canfield when you breezed in with something really big. Hello! Here's something about Mr. Markheim!"
She had been scanning the front page of the paper as she talked, and now she fell silent for a moment as she read.
"Who is Mr. Markheim?" I inquired. "Not Sebastian Markheim, the great banker?"
"Yeah!" said Peaches assentingly. "But it's nothing much. He's bought another picture, that's all. And paid the price of a couple of first-class orange-groves for it."
"Why, Alicia Pegg!" I exclaimed. "What an extraordinary young female you are! Sebastian Markheim is one of the greatest collectors of antique paintings in the world. He is an authority on the subject. How do you come to know him?"
"He came to know us!" she averred cheerfully. "Bought a ranch near our home outfit, and came over to get some pointers from pa. We see him a lot whenever he's in California."
"How amazing!" I exclaimed. "Sebastian Markheim, the great millionaire! What manner of man is he, Alicia?"
"Oh, he's a widower of about fifty or so," she said carelessly. "He's in love with me."
"Alicia!" I exclaimed. "Can you never learn to be more reticent about these—these delicate personal matters?"