her to pose as
a mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her with
good looks that exist only in your imagination."

To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented to
investigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes later
we were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoological
boarding-house.

On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turned
to me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of his
sarcastic grins.

"Who's that playing your piano?" he asked.

"I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's very
much alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing and
walked in, not knowing that I should return so soon."

"Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if a
policeman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear old
boy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you old
Bactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamite
in New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit the
laying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were I
the world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way.
They're dangerous things."

Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural to
one who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simple
language, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer;
also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs.

I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending the
remaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thing
with recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; I
think it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, and
she ceased at once, startled and coloring a little.

"I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I told
her. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhaps
once in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; she
wasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is a
great painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda."

This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend of
Frieda's must be very welcome to her.

"Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't you
oblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act an