“But I must explain. I—” The little French girl was almost in tears.
“Dear child,” said Angelo, in the gentlest of tones, “we are your friends. We love you. Never explain. Your friends do not require it; your enemies do not deserve it; you—”
“Ah! A very happy little party, I see.” A voice that none of them recognized broke in. The short, stout, rather ugly man with a large nose and a broad smile who had thus spoken was a stranger.
“Thrown out,” said Angelo, jerking a hand toward the trunks.
“So! That’s bad. Winter, too.” The man looked them over calmly.
“That little girl can dance,” he said, nodding at Jeanne, “like an angel. Where’ve I seen her? Can’t recall.
“And you, my friend.” He patted Dan Baker on the shoulder. “Where did I see you?”
“Topeka, Kansas.” The old trouper smiled. “Or was it Joplin, Missouri?”
“Probably Joplin,” said the stranger.
“Mind giving me your card?” He turned to Angelo.