“You see, Miss Polly,” he said, “no lady should go about unprotected down here.”
“Ordinarily it’s as safe as any city,” said Sherwen. “Just now I can’t be so certain.”
“I hate being watched over like a child!” pouted Miss Brewster. “And I love sight-seeing alone. The flowers along the Calvario Road were so lovely.”
“That’s the road to the palace,” remarked Carroll, looking at her closely.
“And the butterflies are so marvelous,” she continued cheerfully. “Who lives in that salmon-pink pagoda just this side of the curve?”
Trouble sat dark and heavy upon the handsome features of Mr. Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll, but he was too experienced to put a direct query to his inamorata. What suspicion he had, he cherished until after dinner, when he took it to the club and made it the foundation of certain inquiries.
Thus it happened that at eleven o’clock that evening, he paused before a bench in the plaza, bowered in the bloom of creepers which flowed down from a balcony of the Kast, and occupied by the comfortably sprawled-out form of Mr. Thomas Cluff, who was making a burnt offering to Morpheus.
“Good-evening!” said Mr. Carroll pleasantly.
“Evenin’! How’s things?” returned the other.
“Right as can be, thanks to you. On behalf of the Brewster family, I want to express our appreciation of your assistance to Miss Brewster this morning.”