he
said, almost aloud. "And here I am telephoning just like Uncle
William--Bertram said Uncle William _did_ telephone about _me!_"

In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire.

"Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened.
Mary Jane is--a man."

Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered "Oh, my grief and
conscience!" then a shaking "Wha-at?"

"I say, Mary Jane is a man." Billy was enjoying herself hugely.

"A _ma-an!_"

"Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John and
I must go."

"But, Billy, I don't understand," chattered an agitated voice over the
line. "He--he called himself 'Mary Jane.' He hasn't any business to be
a big man with a brown beard! What shall we do? We don't want a big man
with a brown beard--here!"

Billy laughed roguishly.

"I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blue
room--Aunt Hannah!" Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. "For pity's
sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket.
I'd _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that
kind!"

A half stifled groan came over the wire.

"Billy, he can't stay here."

Billy laughed again.

"No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But
I had to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under the
circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I must
go. _Remember those curling tongs!_" And the receiver clicked sharply
against the hook.

In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright
were speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in the
conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:

"I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to
be--warned."

"You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask."

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered.

"She said you called yourself 'Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any
business to be a big man with a brown beard."

Arkwright laughed.

"I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology," he said. He hesitated,
glanced admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then went
on decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his
bridges. "I signed both letters 'M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one
I quoted a remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as
'Mary Jane.' I did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the ni