"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to
send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins
impudent as she lugs it out.

That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the
evenin',--chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next;
until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her
room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.

"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.

At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we
get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."

"A--a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.

"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on
the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh!
That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been
writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the
wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is
simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in
I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."

"Well, what?" says he.

"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."

He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious.
Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.