"Part of it, I think, part of it. You are usually called Murray Wigan, I believe, and you are engaged to Miss Quarles—Miss Zena Quarles, the granddaughter of a rather stupid professor."
"What has this to do with you?"
"I said it was a delicate matter," he went on. "My client has reason to believe that you are—shall I say enamored of a lady staying in this hotel? You may have noticed me on the lawn just now when you were talking to the lady—I judge it was the lady. Your taste, sir, appeals to me, but I am bound to say—"
"Are you a private detective?"
"Just an inquiry agent; helpful in saving people trouble sometimes."
"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Quarles—"
"No, not exactly, but, my dear Wigan—"
It was Quarles. He changed his voice, seemed to alter his figure, but of course the make-up remained. He was a perfect genius in altering his appearance.
"Was that the lady?" he asked. "Zena mentioned you were yachting with a Mrs. Selborne down here. I don't think she quite liked it. She was woman enough to read between the lines of your letter."
"Oh, nonsense!" I exclaimed.