eps and along a garden path.

"Now, my child," he said most kindly, "tell me why you pretended that
letter was from your father, when it was not?"

"Oh, yes, it was--"

"Stop, Azalea! Don't add to your list of falsehoods! You wrote that
letter yourself on my typewriter, in my library. _Why_ did you do it?"

"How do you know?" Azalea turned an astonished face to her inquisitor.

"I recognised the typing. How do you know how to use the machine so
well? Were you ever a stenographer?"

"No; I don't know shorthand at all. And I didn't--"

"Stop, I say, Azalea! I _know_ you wrote that! Now, tell me why! I
can't imagine any reason for it."

The girl was stubbornly silent

"Unless you tell me why you did it, I shall be compelled to think there
is some wrong reason--"

"Oh, no, there isn't!"

"Then,--come now, Zaly,--'fess up. Was it for a joke on me?"

"Yes, yes, that was it!"

"No, that _wasn't_ it, and you only grasped at my suggestion to evade
the real truth! Now, you must tell me. Out with it!"

"Well--you see, Cousin William, you are always asking me why I don't get
letters from my father, and--as I didn't get any, I manufactured one
to--to satisfy you. That's all."

"No, no, my girl, we haven't got the truth yet. You had more of a motive
than that. And, too, why _don't_ you get letters from your father? Is he
angry with you? Are you two at odds?"

"Yes,--we are. He and I had a quarrel."

"Azalea, you have a very readable face. I know when you are telling me
the truth and when you are not. Now, you are ready to grasp at anything
I suggest rather than let me know the real facts of the case. So I am
justified in thinking it's something pretty bad. What is it, child?
Don't be afraid of me. Did you run away from home?"

"Oh, no!" Azalea looked frightened. Then she burst into tears. "Wh-what
makes you think I'm doing wrong?" she sobbed; "I'm not,--I'm oh,--I'm
all right!" Her air of bravado suddenly returned and she looked up
defiantly, brushing her tears aside.

Farnsworth could, as he said, read her face, and he was quite ready to
meet her explanations when she was in a docile mood, but this quick
return to her pose of injured innocence roused him to fresh indignation.

"I daresay you _are_ all right, Azalea, and therefore it will be easy
for you to answer a few questions which I must insist on having
answered. Who was it that telephoned you yesterday?"

"Oh, that was Mr. Smith."

"His name is _not