If he had been a small boy, his mother would have punished him for stamping through the halls; being a grown man and a visitor, he may be described as walking with firm, bold tread.  Finally he was able to run down Agatha, who was conferring with Sallie in the library.

Sallie sniffed in scorn of Mr. Straker, whom she disliked far worse than Mr. Hand; nevertheless, as she left the room she twisted up her gingham apron and tucked it into its band in a vague attempt at company manners.  Mr. Straker lost no time in attacking Agatha.

“What d’you know about that chauffeur-nurse and general roustabout that’s taking care of your young gentleman up-stairs?” he inquired bluntly.

Innocent of subtlety as Mr. Straker was, he was nevertheless keen enough to see that Agatha’s instincts took alarm at his words.  Indeed, one skilled in reading her face could have detected the nature of the uneasiness written there.  She could not lie again, as she had unhesitatingly lied to the sheriff; neither could she abandon her position as protector to Mr. Hand.  She wished for cleverness of the sort that could throw her manager off the scent, but saw no way other than the direct way.

“Nothing—­I know almost nothing about him.”

“Comes from N’York?”

“I fancy so.”

“Well, take it from me, the sooner you get rid of him the better.  Chances are he’s a man of no principle, and he’ll do you.”

Agatha was silent.  Meantime Mr. Straker got his second wind.

“Of course he knows what he’s about when it comes to a machine,” the manager continued, “but mark me, he knows too much for an honest man.  Looks to me as if there wasn’t anything on this green earth he can’t do.”

“Green ocean, too—­he’s quite as much at home there,” laughed Agatha.

“Humph!” Mr. Straker grunted in disgust.  “Let me assure you, Miss Redmond, that it’s no joking matter.”

Tradition to the contrary, Agatha was content to let the man have the last word.  Mr. Straker turned to some business matters, wrote out telegraphic material enough to occupy the leisurely Charlesport operator for some hours, and then disappeared.

Agatha was impressed by the manager’s words somewhat more than her manner implied.  She had no swift and sure judgment of people, and her experience of the world, short as it was, had taught her that recklessness is a costly luxury.  She was meditating as to the wisest course to pursue, when the ex-chauffeur appeared.

Hand wore his accustomed loose shirt and trousers without coat or waistcoat, and it seemed as if he had never known a hat.  His thick hair was tumbled back from the forehead.  His hands were now spotless, and his whole appearance agreeably clean and wholesome.  He even looked as if he were going to be frank, but Agatha knew that must be a delusion.  It was impossible, however, not to be somewhat cajoled—­he was so eminently likable.  Agatha took a lesson from his own book, and waited in silence for him to speak.