“I should say so,” remarked Crofts.
“Well,” she said very quietly, “if there is one part of these mysteries I know I hold the clue of, it’s the Parson. I know who the Parson is.”
The tableful of us stiffened as if we had been plunged in an electric bath.
“Then who, who, who?” Crofts burst out.
“You mustn’t excite yourself. There never was any reason to be excited about Parson Lolly. Parson Lolly is a dud.”
“Yes, he is!” hooted Bob incredulously.
“Yes, he is, I tell you. I can’t believe for a minute that he has any unusual power. You can hardly say that he has any power at all; at least, it’s delusive rather than formidable. Why, he’s done nothing but deliver threats and make gestures, and some of us have been imagining we’re the victims of supernatural pranks.”
“Supernatural or not,” growled Crofts, “I’ll give him a fine quarter of an hour when I lay hands on him. Who is he?”
The American girl looked him straight in the eye, severely, and he subsided with vague rumblings. “Now, I stipulate that you shall do nothing of the sort. If you intend to make this the excuse for working off your surplus bad temper, I won’t go any further.”
“I’ll go bail for him,” promised Alberta.