"Sure. Men'll do anything. If y' put all the men in th' world in th' cooler, wouldn't be 'ny more crime."
She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket and removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of masculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would lightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom Man, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery over in her mind, when her visitor spoke.
"Well, gimme th' rest of th' dope," said Miss Trimble.
"I beg your pardon?"
"More facts. Spill 'm!"
"Oh, I understand," said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance.
"Lor' W'sbeach?" said Miss Trimble, breaking the story. "Who's he?"
"A very great friend of ours."
"You vouch f'r him pers'n'lly? He's all right, uh? Not a crook, huh?"
"Of course he is not!" said Mrs. Pett indignantly. "He's a great friend of mine."