“Mademoiselle?” His voice had an undertone of excitement or nervousness that was wholly new.

“Well, Mr. Hand?”

He remained standing by the door for a moment, then stepped forward with the abrupt manner of a stripling who, usually inarticulate, has suddenly found tongue.

“Why did you do it, Mademoiselle?”

“Do what, my friend?”

“Back me up before the sheriff.  Give me a slick walkout like that.”

Agatha laughed good-humoredly.

“Why should I answer your questions, Mr. Hand, when you so persistently ignore mine?”

Hand made a gesture of impatience.

“Mademoiselle, you may think me all kinds of a scamp, but I’m not idiot enough to hide behind a woman.  Don’t you know me well enough to know that?” he demanded so earnestly that he seemed very cross.

Agatha looked into his face with a new curiosity.  He was very young, after all.  Something in the way of experience had been grinding philosophy, of a sort, into him—­or out of him.  Wealth and position had been his natural enemies, and he had somehow been led to an attitude of antagonism that was, at bottom, quite foreign to his nature.

So much Agatha could guess at, and for the rest, instinct taught her to be kind.  But she was not willing now to take him quite so seriously as he seemed to be taking himself.  She couldn’t resist teasing him a bit, by saying, “Nevertheless, Mr. Hand, you did hide behind me; you had to.”

He did not reply to her bantering smile, but, in the pause that followed, stepped to the bookcase where she had been standing, gingerly picked up a soft bit of linen and lace from the floor and dropped it into her lap.  Then he faced her in an attitude of pugnacious irritation.  For a brief moment his silence fell from him.

“I didn’t have to,” he contradicted.  “I let it go because I thought you were a good sport, and you wouldn’t catch me backing out of your game, not by a good deal!  But there’s a darned sight,—­pardon me, Mademoiselle!—­there’s too much company round here to suit me! You know me, you know you can trust me, Mademoiselle!  But what about Tom, Dick and Harry all over this place—­casting eyes at a man?”

Agatha, almost against her will, was forced to meet his seriousness half-way.  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Tell ’em!” he burst out.  “Tell ’em the whole story.  Tell that blamed snoopin’ manager that I’m a crook and a kidnapper, and then he’ll stop nosing round after me.  I’ll have an hour’s start, and that’s all I want.  Dogging a man—­running him down under his own automobile!” Hand permitted himself a dry smile at his own joke, but immediately added, “It goes against the grain, Mademoiselle!”

Agatha’s face brightened, as she grasped the clue to Hand’s wrath.  “I’ve no doubt,” she answered gravely.  She knew the manager.  “But why should I tell him, as you suggest?”