"I expect I was pretty clumsy about it," said Dowden, cheerfully. "Well,
well--" he flicked his cigar with a smothered ejaculation that was half
a sigh and half a laugh; "it's a mighty strange case. Here they keep on
living next door to each other, year after year, each going on alone
when they might just as well--" He left the sentence unfinished, save
for a vocal click of compassion. "They bow when they happen to meet, but
they haven't exchanged a word since the night she sent him away, long
ago." He shook his head, then his countenance cleared and he chuckled.
"Well, sir, Dave's got something at home to keep him busy enough, these
days, I expect!"

"Do you mind telling me?" I inquired. "Is its name 'Simpledoria'?"

Mr. Dowden threw back his head and laughed loudly. "Lord, no! What on
earth made you think that?"

I told him. It was my second success with this narrative; however, there
was a difference: my former auditor listened with flushed and breathless
excitement, whereas the present one laughed consumedly throughout.
Especially he laughed with a great laughter at the picture of Beasley's
coming down at four in the morning to open the door for nothing on sea
or land or in the waters under the earth. I gave account, also, of the
miraculous jumping contest (though I did not mention Miss Apperthwaite's
having been with me), and of the elfin voice I had just now overheard
demanding "Bill Hammersley."

"So I expect you must have decided," he chuckled, when I concluded,
"that David Beasley has gone just plain, plum insane."

"Not a bit of it. Nobody could look at him and not know better than