if
you were right," he said. "I remember seeing a young fellow in Romeo
that looked a good deal like this one. But I never met the Sphinx, as
they call him, face to face. He is as shy as a woodchuck. I believe
there are people here that would give a hundred dollars to find out who
he is, and where he came from, and what he is here for, and why he does
n't act like other folks. I wonder why some of those newspaper men don't
come up here and get hold of this story. It would be just the thing for
a sensational writer."

To all this the Interviewer listened with true professional interest.
Always on the lookout for something to make up a paragraph or a column
about; driven oftentimes to the stalest of repetitions,--to the biggest
pumpkin story, the tall cornstalk, the fat ox, the live frog from the
human stomach story, the third set of teeth and reading without
spectacles at ninety story, and the rest of the marvellous commonplaces
which are kept in type with e o y or e 6 m (every other year or every
six months) at the foot; always in want of a fresh incident, a new story,
an undescribed character, an unexplained mystery, it is no wonder that
the Interviewer fastened eagerly upon this most tempting subject for an
inventive and emotional correspondent.

He had seen Paolo several times, and knew that he was Maurice's
confidential servant, but had never spoken to him. So he said to himself
that he must make Paolo's acquaintance, to begin with. In the summer
season many kinds of small traffic were always carried on in Arrowhead
Village. Among the rest, the sellers of fruits--oranges, bananas, and
others, according to the seasons--did an active business. The
Interviewer watched one of these fruit-sellers, and saw that his
hand-cart stopped opposite the house where, as he knew, Maurice Kirkwood
was living. Presently Paolo came out of the door, and began examining
the contents of the hand-cart. The Interviewer saw his opportunity.
Here was an introduction to the man, and the man must introduce him to
the master.

He knew very well how to ingratiate himself with the man,--there was no
difficulty about that. He had learned his name, and that he was an
Italian whom Maurice had brought to this country with him.

"Good morning, Mr. Paul," he said. "How do you like the look of these
oranges?"

"They pretty fair," said Paolo: "no so good as them las' week; no sweet
as them was."

"Why, how do you know without tasting them?" said