“Sam!  Behave!  Or I’ll set my parrot on you!” exclaimed Valerie.

Ogilvy sat up and inspected the parrot.

“You know,” he said, “I believe I’ve seen that parrot somewhere.”

“Impossible, my dear friend—­unless you’ve been in my bedroom.”

Ogilvy got up, dusted his trowsers, and walked over to the parrot.

“Well it looks like a bird I used to know—­I—­it certainly resembles—­” He hesitated, then addressing the bird: 

“Hello, Leparello—­you old scoundrel!” he said, cautiously.

“Forget it!” muttered the bird, cocking his head and lifting first one slate-coloured claw from his perch, then the other;—­“forget it!  Help!  Oh, very well.  God bless the ladies!”

“Where on earth did you ever before see my parrot?” asked Valerie, astonished.  Ogilvy appeared to be a little out of countenance, too.

“Oh, I really don’t remember exactly where I did see him,” he tried to explain; and nobody believed him.

“Sam!  Answer me!”

“Well, where did you get him?”

“Jose Querida gave Leparello to me.”

Annan and Ogilvy exchanged the briefest glance—­a perfectly blank glance.

“It probably isn’t the same bird,” said Ogilvy, carelessly.  “There are plenty of parrots that talk—­plenty of ’em named Leparello, probably.”

“Sam, how can you be so untruthful!  Rita, hold him tightly while I pull his ears!”

It was a form of admonition peculiarly distasteful to Ogilvy, and he made a vain effort to escape.

“Now, Sam, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!  Quick, or I’ll tweak!”

“All right, then,” he said, maliciously, “Querida’s got relatives in Oporto who send him these kind of parrots occasionally.  He names ’em all Leparello, teaches ’em all the same jargon, and—­gives ’em to girls!”

“How funny,” said Valerie.  She looked at Sam, aware of something else in his grin, and gave an uncertain little laugh.

He sat down, rubbing his ear-lobes, the malicious grin still lingering on his countenance.  What he had not told her was that Querida’s volcanically irregular affairs of the heart always ended with the gift of an Oporto parrot.  Marianne Valdez owned one.  So did Mazie Gray.

His cynical gaze rested on Valerie reflectively.  He had heard plenty of rumours and whispers concerning her; and never believed any of them.  He could not believe now that the gift of this crimson, green and sky-blue creature signified anything.  Yet Querida had known her as long as anybody except Neville.

“When did he give you this parrot?” he asked, carelessly.

“Oh, one day just before I was going to Atlantic City.  He was coming down, too, to stay a fortnight while I was there, and come back with me; and he said that He had intended to give the parrot to me after our return, but that he might as well give it to me before I went.”