More gasps from Dorsett. But he's good at duckin' trouble. With a wink at me and a chuckle he remarks: "Torchy, suppose you tell the gentleman where you are?"
Well, say, it was some complicated unravelin' we did durin' the next few minutes, believe me; but after Zenobia and Martha had been called in, and Dorsett has done some more of his smooth explainin', we all begun to see where we were at.
"Torchy," says Zenobia at last, "bring down from your room that little gold locket you've always had."
And when Mr. Ballard has opened it and held the picture under the readin' light, he winds up the whole debate as to who's who.
"It's Irene, of course," says he. "Poor girl! But she had her day, after all. Married a French army officer, you know, and for a while they were happy together. Then the war. He was dropped somewhere around Rheims, I believe. Then I heard of her doing volunteer work at a field hospital. She lasted a month or so at that—typhus, or a German shell, I don't know which. But she's gone too."
And me, I stands there, listenin' gawpy, with my eyes beginnin' to blur. It's Zenobia, you might know, who notices first. She steps over and gathers me in motherly. Not that I needs it, as I know of, but—well, it was kind of good to feel her arm around me just then.
"We'll find out all about it later; won't we, Torchy?" she whispers.
Meanwhile Mr. Ballard has swung on Dorsett. "So you were trying to pose as Uncle Bill, were you?" he demands. "Well, Sir, you're just about the caliber of man Dick would choose to put his trust in! But I'll bet a thousand you were not finding it so easy to fool his boy here! Going, are you? This way, Sir."
"At that, though," says I, as the door shuts after Dorsett, "he had me guessin'."
"Yes," says Mr. Ballard, "he would, any of us."