in propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at
the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the
hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's
some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the
pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color
comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look.
Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a
cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is
left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a
dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched
somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb
hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of
meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit,
though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit
flavorin'.

"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.

"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.

"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 h