“Mr. Beetle Man, will you lay your hand upon your microscope, or whatever else scientists make oath upon, and answer fully and truly the question about to be put to you?”
“As I hope for a blessed release from this abode of lunacy, I will.”
“Mr. Beetle Man, have you got an awful secret in your life?”
So sharply did he start that the heavy goggles slipped a fraction of an inch along his nose, the first time she had ever seen them in any degree misplaced. She was herself sensibly discountenanced by his perturbation.
“Why do you ask that?” he demanded.
“Natural interest in a friend,” she answered lightly, but with growing wonder. “I think you’d be altogether irresistible if you were a pirate or a smuggler or a revolutionary. The romantic spirit could lurk so securely behind those gloomy soul-screens that you wear. What do you keep back of them, O dark and shrouded beetle man?”
“My eyes,” he grunted.
“Basilisk eyes, I’m sure. And what behind the eyes?”
“My thoughts.”
“You certainly keep them securely. No intruders allowed. But you haven’t answered my question. Have you ever murdered any one in cold blood? Or are you a married man trifling with the affections of poor little me?”