“She might,” agreed the Bonnie Lassie thoughtfully. “That could be arranged—in case she does.”
“A little judicious stimulus to her mind,” I suggested, “if it doesn't occur to her.”
“Leave it to me.”
One of the many delightful things about the Bonnie Lassie is that it's never necessary to draw diagrams for her. So I left it to her and went to telephone Carlo. He said that he had a business engagement or two for the following morning, but it didn't matter (in a voice which indicated that nothing in the world mattered any more), and if I wished to see him of course he'd come.
So I bade the Bonnie Lassie good-day and went home to mature a reasonable excuse for summoning one of the busiest young men in America to my side. By the time he arrived the next day I had a plausible sort of lie fixed up about a stock concerning which I wished some advice. Schepstein, our local financier, had coached me on it. But when Carlo inquired at the start whether it was common or preferred I was talking about, I had to admit that I didn't know.
“What did you send for me for, then, dominie?” he asked patiently.
A motor-car which I recognized had arrived at and departed from the Bonnie Lassie's door. I played desperately for time, while Carlo's disconsolate regard wandered to the wire-mesh structure, seen only dimly now through the half-bare branches of trees which had been small when he was a boy and my pupil. From where he sat he could not see—I maneuvered his seat to manage that—what I saw; two girlish figures cross Our Square and separate at the entrance to No. 13. The Bonnie Lassie had done her part. Now for mine.
“Carlo,” I said, “are you looking at the Tiger's cage?”
“Yes.”
“They're tearing it down to-day or to-morrow.”