Howard whirled upon him furiously, calling him a name that Freddy did not understand, but Florette flung herself between them and caught the blow.

* * * * *

“He certainly looks as if he had fallen asleep,” Miss Nellie Blair repeated.  “Better run out and get him, Mary.  He might tumble off the wall.”

As Mary went out a maid came in.

“A gen’l’mun to see you, Miss Blair,” she announced.

“Is it a parent?” asked Miss Nellie.

The maid’s eyebrows twitched, and she looked faintly grieved, as all good servants do when they are forced to consider someone whom they cannot acknowledge as their superior.

“No, ma’am, he doesn’t look like a parent,” she complained.

“He really is a very queer-lookin’ sort of person, ma’am.  I wouldn’t know exactly where to place him.  Shall I say you are out, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said Miss Eva.  “No doubt he wants to sell an encyclopedia.”

“No, let him come in,” said Miss Nellie.  “It might be a reporter about Madame d’Avala,” she added, turning to her sister.  “Sometimes they look queer.”

“If it turns out to be an encyclopedia I shall leave you at once,” said Miss Eva.  “You are so kind-hearted that you will look through twenty-four volumes, and miss your dinner——­”

But the gentleman who came in carried no books, nor did he look like one who had ever been associated with them.  Carefully dressed in the very worst of taste from his scarfpin to his boots, he had evidently just been too carefully shaved, for there were scratches on his wide, ludicrous face, and his smile was as rueful as a clown’s.

“The Misses Blair, I presume?” he asked in what was unmistakably his society manner, and he held out a card.

Miss Eva took it and read aloud, “Mr. Bert Brannigan, Brannigan and Bowers, Black-Face Comedians.”

“Ah?” murmured Miss Nellie, who was always polite even in the most trying circumstances.

But Miss Eva could only stare at the rich brown suit, the lavender tie and matching socks and handkerchief.

“Well?” said Miss Eva.

Mr. Brannigan cleared his throat and looked cautiously about the room.  His heavy, clownlike face was troubled.

“Where’s the kid?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“What child?” Miss Eva snapped.

“You’ve come to see one of our pupils?” Miss Nellie faltered.

“Yeah.  Hers.”

“Hers?”

“W’y, Miss Le Fay’s li’l boy.”

“Oh, Freddy?”

“Sure!  Does he—­he don’t—­you ain’t tole ’im yet, have you?”

“Told him what?”

“My God! don’t you know?”

Bert Brannigan stared at the ladies, mopping his brow with the lavender handkerchief.

“Please explain yourself, Mr. Brannigan,” said Miss Eva.

“She’s dead.  I thought you knew.”

“Miss Le Fay is dead?” gasped Miss Nellie.