Not at all," she gulped. "I suppose I ought to be grateful."

"That's just as you feel about it," he allowed reasonably.

She made an effort to collect herself. "But I am grateful," she
asserted. "Please don't think I mean to be rude. Only," she
gulped again, overcome by the stinging memory of that woman's
insolence, "I'd almost as lief you hadn't stopped me--and that wall
wasn't there!"

"Now, now!" he reminded her. "It can't be as bad as all that, you
know."

"Well, but think how you would feel if you'd been twice accused of
stealing Mrs. Gosnold's jewels last night!"

"Once would be plenty," he said gravely. "I don't reckon anybody would
say that twice to my bare face."

"Yes--but you can resent insults like a man."

"That's right, too. But then it's the only way I know to resent
'em--with my fists. That's where you women put it all over us men; you
know a hundred different ways of sinking the poisoned barb subtly. I
wouldn't like to be that Pride critter when you get through with her."

There was unquestionably a certain amount of comfort to be gained by
viewing the case from this angle. Sally became calmer and brightened
perceptibly.

"Perhaps," she murmured in an enigmatic manner becoming in the
putative mistress of unutterable arts.

"It's just like that shrivelled old shrew. What you might expect. If I
had thought of it in time, I'd've been willing to make a book on
her laying it to you."

"But why?" Sally protested perplexedly.

"Sure, I don't have to tell you why," he said diplomatically. "You
know as well as I do she's plumb corroded with jealousy of you for
winning out with her dear Abigail just when she thought she had things
fixed. I don't suppose you know the inside story of how your
predecessor got the sack? The Pride person was responsible. Miss
Matring was in her way, and a good deal of her own disposition to
boot. It was a merry war, all right, while it lasted--scheming and
squabbling and backbiting and tattling and corrupting servants to
carry tales--all that sort of thing. To be honest about it, I don't
just know which was the worse of the two; they didn't either of them
stick at much of anything noticeable. But, of course, Miss Matring was
handicapped, not being blood-kin, and the upshot was she had to
go--and until you showed up the old maid was actually miserable for
want of somebody to hate. I noticed the light of battle in those beady
little eyes of hers the minute she laid 'em