“I warned you to keep that lady’s name from your lips.”
“You did. But I don’t know by what authority. You’re not her father, I suppose. Are you her brother, by any chance?”
As he spoke, Perkins experienced that curious feeling that some invisible person was trying to catch his eye. Now, as he turned directly upon Carroll, his glance, passing over his shoulder, followed a broad ray of light spreading from a second-story leaf-framed balcony of the hotel. There was a stir amid the greenery. The face of the Voice appeared, framed in flowers. Its features lighted up with mirth, and the lips formed the unmistakable monosyllable: “Boo!”
The identification was complete—“Boo to a goose.”
“Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll!” Unwittingly he spoke the name aloud, and, unfortunately, laughed.
To a less sensitive temperament, even, than Carroll’s, the provocation would have been extreme. Perkins was recalled to a more serious view of the situation by the choking accents of that gentleman.
“Take off your glasses!”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going to thrash you within an inch of your life!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” cried the young Caracuñan. “This is no place for such an affair.”