The Interviewer was becoming excited.  “Can’t find out anything about him, you said, did n-’t you?  How do you know there’s anything to find?  Do you want to know what I think he is?  I’ll tell you.  I think he is an actor,—­a fellow from one of the city theatres.  Those fellows go off in their summer vacation, and like to puzzle the country folks.  They are the very same chaps, like as not, the visitors have seen in plays at the city theatres; but of course they don’t know ’em in plain clothes.  Kings and Emperors look pretty shabby off the stage sometimes, I can tell you.”

The young man followed the Interviewer’s lead.  “I shouldn’t wonder if you were right,” he said.  “I remember seeing a young fellow in Romeo that looked a good deal like this one.  But I never met the Sphinx, as they call him, face to face.  He is as shy as a woodchuck.  I believe there are people here that would give a hundred dollars to find out who he is, and where he came from, and what he is here for, and why he does n’t act like other folks.  I wonder why some of those newspaper men don’t come up here and get hold of this story.  It would be just the thing for a sensational writer.”

To all this the Interviewer listened with true professional interest.  Always on the lookout for something to make up a paragraph or a column about; driven oftentimes to the stalest of repetitions,—­to the biggest pumpkin story, the tall cornstalk, the fat ox, the live frog from the human stomach story, the third set of teeth and reading without spectacles at ninety story, and the rest of the marvellous commonplaces which are kept in type with e o y or e 6 m (every other year or every six months) at the foot; always in want of a fresh incident, a new story, an undescribed character, an unexplained mystery, it is no wonder that the Interviewer fastened eagerly upon this most tempting subject for an inventive and emotional correspondent.

He had seen Paolo several times, and knew that he was Maurice’s confidential servant, but had never spoken to him.  So he said to himself that he must make Paolo’s acquaintance, to begin with.  In the summer season many kinds of small traffic were always carried on in Arrowhead Village.  Among the rest, the sellers of fruits—­oranges, bananas, and others, according to the seasons—­did an active business.  The Interviewer watched one of these fruit-sellers, and saw that his hand-cart stopped opposite the house where, as he knew, Maurice Kirkwood was living.  Presently Paolo came out of the door, and began examining the contents of the hand-cart.  The Interviewer saw his opportunity.  Here was an introduction to the man, and the man must introduce him to the master.

He knew very well how to ingratiate himself with the man,—­there was no difficulty about that.  He had learned his name, and that he was an Italian whom Maurice had brought to this country with him.

“Good morning, Mr. Paul,” he said.  “How do you like the look of these oranges?”