He nods gloomy.  “You were bound to notice it,” says he.  “Anyone would.  I haven’t been able to humor all her whims.  Of course, she’s been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married—­well, she doesn’t seem to realize.  And I’ve offered to take her anywhere,—­to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring.  Three times this week we’ve packed to go to different places, and then she’s changed her mind.  But I can’t take her back to Long Island, to her mother’s, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here.  It would be absurd.  But things can’t go on this way, either.  It—­it’s awful!”

I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin’ gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin’ behind the hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin’ me in for dinner with ’em.  She’s some dream too, the way she’s got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin’ and goin’ in her cheeks—­say, it most made me dizzy to look.  Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better’n a cabaret show.  Mostly, though, it’s aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin’ part.  He sits watchin’ her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways.  The soup was scorched somethin’ fierce; but Robbie don’t seem to notice it.  The roast lamb hadn’t had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer.  She has a reg’lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin’.

“And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better,” says she.

“But it’s too late for strawberries,” explains Nick.

“I don’t care!” pouts Robbie.  “I don’t like this, and I’m going to send it all back to the kitchen.”  She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.

That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin’,—­chatterin’ and laughin’ one minute, almost weepin’ the next; until fin’lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room.  Nick Talbot sits bitin’ his lips and lookin’ desp’rate.

“I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” says he half to himself.

At that I can’t hold it any longer.  “Say, Talbot,” says I, “before we get any further I got to own up that I’m a ringer.”

“A—­a what!” says he, starin’ puzzled.

“I’m supposed to be here just as a special messenger,” says I; “but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts.  Uh-huh!  That’s what the folks at home think, from the letters she’s been writin’.  Mr. Robert was dead sure of it.  But I see now they had the wrong dope.  I guess I’ve got the idea.  What you’re up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don’t mind my mixin’ in I’d like to state what I think I’d do if it was me.”