an't argue
about. It might be Irish, French, Italian, Spanish or American. It
tells you nothing."

Bill paused at the door.

"I don't suppose he had anything to do with giving the children those
awful names," she suggested.

"Oh, as for that, I have known plenty of mothers who claim that right,"
I responded. "That does not amount to much. No. There are two points
that seem to me to invalidate the claim of this gentleman to any
connection with our neighbours, but that is not one of them."

"What are they?" inquired Mac. Bill opened the door and went in. I
cleared my throat.

"First," I said, "there is the entirely fanciful argument that such a
man as Cecil has described would not be attracted by such a woman
as--Mrs. Carville. I can't explain in so many words why I think so, but
I do. I don't believe she would attract him. If you consider a moment,
you will see it. The English gentleman of good family and birth, when he
has once broken out of his own social world, does not show much taste
and discrimination in the choice of a wife or mistress."

"Well," said Mac.

"Second, we have the incontestable fact that Benvenuto Cellini, though
sharing his illustrious brother's features and histrionic talent, has
blue eyes and fair hair. Where did he get them?"

"Something in that," my friend admitted, throwing his match into the
darkness. "We'll have to hunt round for a _tertium quid_, so to speak."

"You put it pithily," I asserted. "Personally I am coming to the
conclusion that Cecil's story, while certainly interesting in itself,
does not help us at all with our own difficulty. I am inclined to think
that he is of our nation and fair complexion. Really, when you reflect,
it is unjust to assume your _tertium quid_ and complicate the
story--yet. We have no actual evidence of her--obliquity."

"No," said Mac. "Let's wait."

"We must," I replied. "The children themselves will no doubt provide us
with plenty of food for conjecture if they go on as they have begun. We
are good friends now, they and I."

"You surpassed yourself as an Indian," he laughed.

"Hostile," I corrected. "Did you notice the realistic way in which
Giuseppe Mazzini fell?" He nodded.

"You'll have to be a cow-boy to-morrow," he remarked. "You might suggest
rounding up their confounded chickens and set them to repairing that
fence."

"I shall be a cow-boy with enthusiasm," I said. "Under my breast beats
an adventurous heart, believe me. As for