To come down to earth:  here we are, six women and five men, including a policeman, not a servant in the house, and no one who knows how to do anything.  They are really immensely interesting, these people; they all know each other very well, and it is “Jimmy” here, and “Dal” there—­Dallas Brown, who went to India with me, you remember my speaking of him—­and they are good natured, too, except at meal times.  The little hostess, Mrs. Wilson, took over the cooking, and although luncheon was better than breakfast, the food still leaves much to the imagination.

I wish you could see this Mrs. Wilson, Hal.  You would change a whole lot of your ideas.  She is a thoroughbred, sure enough, and of course some of her beauty is the result of the exquisite care about which you and I—­still from our Andean pinnacle—­used to rant.  But the fact is, she is more than that.  She has fire, and pluck, no end.  If you could have seen her this morning, standing in front of a cold kitchen range, determined to conquer it, and had seen the tilt of her chin when I offered to take over the cooking—­you needn’t grin; I can cook, and you know it—­you would understand what I mean.  It was so clear that she was paralyzed with fright at the idea of getting breakfast, and equally clear that she meant to do it.  By the way, I have learned that her name was McNair before she married this would-be artist, Wilson, and that she is a daughter of the McNair who financed the Callao branch!

I have not met the others so intimately.  There are two sisters named Mercer, inclined to be noisy—­they are playing roulette in the next room now.  One is small and dark, almost Hebraic in type, named Leila and called Lollie.  The other, larger, very blonde and languishing, and with a decided preference for masculine society, even, saving the mark, mine!  Dallas Brown’s wife, good looking, smokes cigarettes when I am not around—­they all do, except Mrs. Wilson.

Then there is a maiden aunt, who is ill today with grippe and excitement, and a Miss Knowles, who came for a moment last night to see Mrs. Wilson, was caught in the quarantine (see papers), and, after hiding all night in the basement, is sulking all day in her room.  Her presence created an excitement out of all proportion to the apparent cause.

From the fact that I have reason to know that my artist host and his beautiful wife are on bad terms, and from the significant glances with which the announcement of Miss Knowles’ presence was met, the state of affairs seems rather clear.  Wilson impresses me as a spineless sort, anyhow, and when the lady of the basement shut herself away from the rest today and I happened on “Jimmy,” as they call him, pleading with her through the door, I very nearly kicked him down the stairs.  Oh, yes, I’ll keep out, right enough; it isn’t my affair.

By the way, after the quarantine and with the policeman locked in the furnace room, a pearl necklace and a diamond bracelet were stolen!  Just ten of us to divide the suspicion!  Upon my word, Hal, it’s the queerest situation I ever heard of.  Which of us did it?  I make a guess that not a few of us are fools, but which is the knave?  The worst of it is, I am the only unaccredited member of the household!