"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.
That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',—chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.
"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.
At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."
"A—a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.
"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh! That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."
"Well, what?" says he.
"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."
He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious. Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.
Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head.