“Frankly, Miss Graham, it was just as a lark that I answered the advertisement. But now that I’m here and find you here, it looks—er—as if it might—er—be more serious.”
A tinge of pink came into the girl’s cheeks, but she answered lightly enough:
“Indeed, it may, for you, if uncle finds you here with those beetles.”
“Never mind me or the beetles. I’d like to know about the dog that your aunt is worrying over. Is he here with you?”
The soft curve of Miss Graham’s lips straightened a little. “I really think,” she said with decision, “that you had better explain further before questioning.”
“Nothing simpler. Once upon a time there lived a crack-brained young Don Quixote who wandered through an age of buried romance piously searching for trouble. And, twice upon a time, there dwelt in an enchanted stone castle in West Sixteenth Street an enchanting young damsel in distress—”
“I’m not a damsel in distress,” interrupted Miss Graham, passing over the adjective.
The young man leaned to her. The half smile had passed from his lips, and his eyes were very grave.
“Not—er—if your dog were to—er—disappear?” he drawled quietly.
The swift unexpectedness of the counter broke down the girl’s guard.