you smile? Tell me?" eagerly.

"It was nature asserting itself."

"You mean you just couldn't help it?"

"That's precisely what I mean."

"Not very complimentary, I'd say."

"A smile is ever a compliment, sir."

"I say, do you know you interest me?" he began warmly, but she put her
finger to her lips.

"My uncle is returning. I must not talk to you any longer." She glanced
uneasily out upon the square, and then hurriedly added, a certain
wistfulness in her voice and eyes. "I couldn't help it to-day. I forgot
my place. But you are the first gentleman I've spoken to since I came
here."

"I--I was afraid you might think I am not a gentleman. I've been rather
fresh."

"I happen to have known many gentlemen. Before I went into--service, of
course." She turned away abruptly, a sudden shadow crossing her face.
Truxton King exulted. At last he was touching the long-sought trail of
the Golden Girl! Here was Romance! Here was mystery!

Spantz was crossing the sidewalk. The American leaned forward and
half-whispered: "Just watch me buy that broadsword. I may, in time, buy
out the shop, piece by piece."

She smiled swiftly. "Let me warn you: don't pay his price."

"Thanks."

When Spantz entered the door, a moment later, the girl was gazing
listlessly from the window and Truxton King was leaning against the
counter with his back toward her, his arms folded and a most impatient
frown on his face.

"Hello!" he said gruffly. "I've been waiting ten minutes for you."

Spantz's black eyes shot from one to the other. "What do you want?" he
demanded sharply. As he dropped his hat upon a stool near, the door, his
glance again darted from the man to the girl and back again.

"The broadsword. And, say, Mr. Spantz, you might assume a different tone
in addressing me. I'm a customer, not a beggar."

The girl left the window and walked slowly to the rear of the shop,
passing through the narrow door, without so much as a glance at King or
the old man. Spantz was silent until she was gone.

"You want the broadsword, eh?" he asked, moderating his tone
considerably. "It's a rare old--"

"I'll give you a hundred dollars-not another cent," interrupted King,
riot yet over his resentment. There followed a long and irritating
argument, at the conclusion of which Mr. King became the possessor of
the weapon at his own price. Remembering himself in time, he fell to
admiring some old rings and bracelets in a cabinet near by, thus pavin