“Hate ’em!  Suff-gist!” She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett.  Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow.  “You S’porter of th’ Cause?”

Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strong opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment.  Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman.  She returned hurriedly to the main theme.

“A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my nephew, James Crocker.  He is an impostor.  I want you to watch him very carefully.”

“Whassiz game?”

“I do not know.  Personally I think he is here to kidnap my son Ogden.”

“I’ll fix’m,” said the fair Trimble confidently.  “Say, that butler ’f yours.  He’s a crook!”

Mrs. Pett opened her eyes.  This woman was manifestly competent at her work.

“Have you found that out already?”

“D’rectly saw him.”  Miss Trimble opened her purse.  “Go’ one ’f his photographs here.  Brought it from office.  He’s th’ man that’s wanted ’ll right.”

“Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man, the one who pretends to be my nephew.”

“Sure.  I’ll fix ’m.”

She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch with vicious emphasis.

“There is another possibility,” said Mrs. Pett.  “My nephew, Mr. William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it.”

“Sure.  Men’ll do anything.  If y’ put all the men in th’ world in th’ cooler, wouldn’t be ’ny more crime.”

She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket and removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of masculinity.  Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor.  Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would lightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom Man, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his way to deceive.  She was still turning this mystery over in her mind, when her visitor spoke.

“Well, gimme th’ rest of th’ dope,” said Miss Trimble.

“I beg your pardon?”

“More facts.  Spill ’m!”

“Oh, I understand,” said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance.

“Lor’ W’sbeach?” said Miss Trimble, breaking the story.  “Who’s he?”

“A very great friend of ours.”

“You vouch f’r him pers’n’lly?  He’s all right, uh?  Not a crook, huh?”

“Of course he is not!” said Mrs. Pett indignantly.  “He’s a great friend of mine.”

“All right.  Well, I guess thass ’bout all, huh?  I’ll be going downstairs ’an starting in.”