inctly
German.

The traveller turned at the sound, to make acquaintance with Hans
Becher; for it was Hans Becher, very much metamorphosed from the
retiring German of a year ago. He made the train regularly now.

The small man nodded and held out his grip; together they walked up
the street. In front of the hotel they stopped, and the stranger
pulled out his watch.

"Is there a livery here?" he asked.

"Yes; at the street end--the side to the left hand."

"Thanks. I'll be back with you this evening."

Hans Becher stared, open-mouthed, as the man moved off.

"You will not to dinner return?"

The little man stopped, and smiled without apparent reason.

"No. Keep the grip. I expect to lunch," again he smiled without
provocation, "elsewhere. By the way," he added, as an afterthought,
"can you tell me where Mr. Maurice--Ichabod Maurice--lives?"

The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by his
free hand.

"Straight out, eight miles. Little house with _paint_"--strong
emphasis on the last--"_white_ paint."

"Thanks."

Hans saw the escape of an opportunity.

"They are friends of yours, perhaps?"--he grasped at it.

The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit,
sprang to his face.

"Yes, they're--friends of mine," he corroborated.

Hans, personification of knowledge, stood bobbing on the doorstep,
until the trail of smoke vanished from sight, then brought the satchel
inside and set it down hard.

"Her brother has come," he announced to the wide-eyed Minna.

"_Wessen Bruder?_" Minna was obviously excited, as attested by the
lapse from English.

"Are we not now Americans naturalized?" rebuked Hans, icily. Suddenly
he thawed. "Whose brother! The brother of Camilla Maurice, to be
sure."

Minna scrutinized the bag, curiously.

"Did he so--inform you?" she questioned unadvisedly.

"It was not necessary. I have eyes."

Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door;
instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue.

"You are so wise, Hans!"

And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher.

Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into
the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of
a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air.

"Buffalo grass, I'll wager! I've heard of it," and in the instinctive
action of every newcomer he sniffed again.

Camilla Maurice sat in fr