Herein he did me injustice. The brown-and-gold fairy threw the gate open and invited Dead-Men's-Shoes in to bargain. Highly advantageous bargaining it was, I judged from the ill-suppressed jubilance of my associate's face when he emerged some minutes later, tottering under a burden of assorted clothing, while she brought up the rear, carrying one pair of shoes. The rose was gone from her hair.
“Remember,” she cautioned him, “the suits you may dispose of as you please, but the shoes are to go to the—the Little Red Doctor just as they are. Will you see that they do?” She appealed to me.
“I'll take them myself,” I promised.
“Will you? That's kind of you. But you mustn't tell him where they came from.” She looked up at me and I seemed to discern something wistful in her eyes. “You are a friend of Dr. Smith's?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I used to be,” said she indifferently. Dead-Men's-Shoes climbed into the wagon and lifted the lines. “Accept the assurances of my respec'ful sympathy,” he recited, “an' remember the address if there's anything further in my line. Wake up, Dolly Gray.”
The brown-and-gold fairy floated out through the gate and came to my side.
“Does he still limp?” she asked in a half whisper.
“Imperceptibly,” I answered.
“I don't want him to limp,” she cried imperiously and was gone.